Spectacularly Ignorant in a Nice Way
by A Pocket full of Mumbles
Summary: Sherlock has feelings for John, that much is clear, but what if the feelings aren't returned, or even noticed?
1. Chapter 1

His mind was working over time. John, the bomb strapped to his chest, gave him a look of absolute horror, blood pouring from his nose. "I am giving you one last chance, Sherlock Holmes" Moriarty said with a hiss

"Answer me."

"I don't know!" Moriarty hit John again.

"TELL ME!"

"I don't know!"

Moriarty cocked the gun and pointed it at John's head.

"Are you sure? I don't think you would like to lose THIS game would you?" Sherlock bit his lip, trying to keep strong

"Please" he begged. There was a click in the gun, as Moriarty fingered the trigger.

"I don't like seeing you this weak Sherlock. It puzzles me." John closed his eyes and took his last shuddering breath.

"Goodbye Sherlock" John whispered.

BANG!

...

Sherlock woke with a start, his sheet tangled around his legs, his shirt drenched in sweat. Panting he sat up in bed. Ever since that night at the pool… he knew. Since then, the dreams had gotten worse, more violent, more heart wrenching. Oh, he was very certain of his feelings for John. He got up and made a cup of tea before sitting on the couch, deciding to ignore it. He couldn't act on his feelings anyway. He could just picture John's expression if he told him. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, laying his head back on the arm of the couch and kicking his feet up. His hair was a mess and the bags under his eyes were immense. There were four nicotine patches on his arm in a little row. He looked over at the clock. 3:00am. How did he let himself fall for him? At first he just found him annoying. More like a pet than an actual person, but that night, seeing him grab Moriarty by the neck, risking his life for him, seeing him on the edge of death… He pondered waking John but thought better of it. What would he say? He imagined his smile and the feeling of running his fingers through John's coarse blond hair. Sherlock smiled as he slowly, slowly drifted back into sleep.

...

Tick. Tick. Tick. John sat in bed, twiddling his thumbs. Insomnia was fairly common with him as he was a light sleeper to begin with. He checked his blog. Nothing had changed. He closed his eyes. He heard a clunking downstairs. Sherlock up for a midnight snack, he guessed. Up again? This was not an uncommon thing over the last few weeks but this was his third day in a row. John hoped that Sherlock wasn't as shaken by Moriarty's bomb scare as much as he was. He sometimes thought he could still hear the bomb ticking against his chest, but it was usually just the clock on his bedside table. 3:00am. Even in Afghanistan, he wasn't as scared as he was right at that moment, and those were some of the worst memories in his life. John looked at his hands. They were both violently shaking. That was odd; his hands were usually steady, even when nervous or afraid. He remembered the night Mycroft told him so. The day after he met Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been so good to him. Taking him in when he knew he wasn't exactly in the best of shapes and helping him clean up his act and start fresh back in London. But since that night, Sherlock seemed distant and angry, as if John had done something wrong, which, to his knowledge, he hadn't. He opened his eyes again and checked his phone. Nothing. He got up and started pacing. Had he done something wrong? Was he slowing Sherlock down? Of course not! That was preposterous, he told himself to stop letting the way Sherlock was treating him get to his head. They were friends. John pushed his fingers through his hair and sat down on the bed, putting on his slippers. He couldn't seem to shake the nervousness he had around the brilliant consulting detective. All he could think of was the things sergeant Donavan had said about Sherlock on the night of their first case.

_"__One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."_

He couldn't help but take it to heart; Sherlock could be so intense sometimes. He shuddered before, switching off his bedroom light and going to join his psychopathic roommate.

...

"Sherlock? Are you awake?"John murmured into the darkened room. There was a grumble and a sharp inhale before Sherlock sat up and turned on the light, illuminating the kitchen and living area the two men shared.

"Well, I am now." John took in Sherlock's disheveled appearance.

"Oh, sorry, I was just worried, that's all. I'll let you be." John turned to go.

"No, it's ok, I'm up now anyway, I was only asleep for a couple minutes." John sat down in the armchair across from Sherlock. The two looked at each other in silence for a moment before either of them said anything.

"You've been up a lot lately, is everything alright?" John asked. Sherlock smiled slightly and looked at the doctor. He sighed,

"I'm good. I'm fine."

"That's good, I was worried." John repeated, he was sounding like a bumbling idiot.

"I'm going to go now. Just making sure that everything was ok."

"Thank you."

"Alright, good night" John got up and left, feeling stupid. He wasn't even sure why he had gone down in the first place. Sherlock watched him go with a pang of longing. He was definitely sure of his feelings for John. Unquestionably.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **

**Thanks for the feedback! I am open to taking suggestions.**

**Also, thanks to Rebecca, my consulting fanfic writer :)**

* * *

John sighed wearily as he placed his cup of tea back on to the table, which was cluttered with pictures of their latest case

"Maybe it was just suicide!" Sherlock shot John the most condescending look. He was angry, and frustrated with himself. Why hadn't he taken advantage of that night? He could have just told him then and there.

"No John, the wrists may indicate suicide, yes, but the briefcase indicates otherwise." John was lost.

"What about the briefcase exactly?" Sherlock scuffled through the photos distractedly as he spoke

"That one was easy. He wears a watch on his left hand; he left scuffmarks every time he put it down. But then why was the suicide note written by his right hand."

"Maybe it wasn't him writing it?" John said,

"That is the obvious answer and I am obviously not stupid" the insult was directly pointed at the doctor who was growing tired of Sherlock's remarks. After the last two weeks of being stuck with 'bored Sherlock' John's nerves were shot. He got up out if his seat to bring his cup and saucer to the kitchen to prevent himself from doing anything rash. Oblivious to John's feelings, Sherlock continued,

"The curved penmanship of the briefcase's contents matched the sloppy, right-handed writing of a left-handed man, so, why switch hands if he knew he was going to die anyway? Henceforth, not suicide. Now will you please leave, I need to think."

"You do know I live here right?" John said angrily "I can bloody stay wherever I like!"

Sherlock paused in thought, before clapping his hands together and smiling

"The floorboards were a splintering disaster! He was fairly clumsy since his shoes are two sizes bigger than his actual feet, maybe because the shoe store didn't have his size, more likely because he was self conscious of his small feet. Now, he trips on the loose floorboard as he runs up the stairs, catches himself with his stronger hand, splinters it very badly and can't write with it. That's why he had the glove on. If they had just let me touch the body this whole thing would have gone so much faster. Just a suicide. Case closed. Funny how you got that one right." John, near the end of his rope inhaled sharply, biting his tongue to keep from yelling.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all!" John said, overplaying the sarcasm. "What in gods name could be wrong?"

"Excellent. Could you pass me my laptop? And a cup of tea would be superb, thank you" John let out a cry of exasperation

"Do you know what? You can find someone else to put up with you." Sherlock lifted his head up at looked at John with furrowed eyebrows

"So you are upset? I don't understand..."

"Sherlock, you constantly insult me, you don't even need me here and you act as though I am some sort of housekeeper! I am fed up with your bullshit!" John grabbed his bag and started to shove his minimal belongings into it

"What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock said

"Leaving" John shot back. He emerged from his room with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He turned to go.

"Just one last thing, I want my cane back." Sherlock looked up at him.

"Alright then," Sherlock walked slowly into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and pulled out the doctor's old walking stick. His entire life before he met Sherlock was compressed into that one tiny object.

"Here, take it." John walked over to him and grabbed the cane's handle aggressively. The two men's faces were inches apart and Sherlock could feel John's hot breath on his cheek.

"Don't wait up" John whispered in his ear sending chills down his back. John ripped the cane out of Sherlock's hands, turned on his heel and walked out the door, not knowing that that would be the last time he would see 221b Baker St. for a long, long time.

…

The apartment was eerily silent. The leaking faucet dripping was the only sound that could be heard. Sherlock walked slowly over to the couch and sat down, putting his head in his hands. He had mucked it up. His best and only friend and he had mucked it up. Sherlock sighed. The house stayed quiet. He thought about running after John, but Sherlock didn't show weakness, to anyone. Why had he been so stupid? He had let the only thing that really mattered get away. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Sherlock dear, what's all the ruckus?" Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed up the stairs.

"Nothing big, Mrs. Hudson. John and I just had a little fight. He's gone out for a breath of air. He'll be back." Sherlock said, his voice sounding small and defeated in his ears.

"Alright. As long as everything is okay between you two." Then her apartment door closed with a soft thud. He'd be back, Sherlock thought to himself. He'd be back.

…

John was furious. Sherlock had been so annoying, so persistent, and so awful. The little things had been building up. That night he stood John up when they were supposed to be meeting for dinner to follow a suspect. Last week, when he had spilt coffee on John's favourite sweater to see if the stain would come off with vinegar… it didn't. He had also been bored and generally moody, which, unfortunately for John, meant he kept the insults flowing. John took deep breaths. He didn't really have anywhere to go. He decided he might as well just go back and face the embarrassment. Besides, it was getting dark and John had forgotten a jacket in his rush to leave. Suddenly, there were footsteps behind him. John turned to look, as a hooded man walked a couple paces behind him. John picked up the pace, so did the hooded man. John ducked into an alleyway, hoping that he would just move on, of course he didn't and as he stepped into the light of a street lamp, John recognized the man's face.

"Jim Moriarty" he whispered before he had a cloth put over his mouth and he drifted off into a deep dark sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **

**Sorry this one is so short. **

**I liked it the way it was and didn't want to spoil it :)**

* * *

Sherlock was furious. It had been two weeks and John hadn't come back. At first, he was certain that John wouldn't just pick up and leave forever, but he was starting to doubt himself. Sherlock chuckled at the thought of doubt. Of course John would come back! They were investigative partners, colleagues, roommates, friends and… Sherlock wondered if his feelings for John were mutual. He had let him slip away too easily. Why hadn't he just been nice for once! Damn it. Damn it.

"Damn it!" Sherlock screamed taking his gun and shooting at the wall.

"Damn it!" he yelled at the top of his lungs and shot again

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" he shot to emphasize each word. There was a silence. All Sherlock could hear was his own heart beat in his ears and sharpness of his breath in and out.

"Sherlock dear? What's all the fuss about?" Mrs. Hudson was well aware of what was going on in the apartment upstairs, but as usual she let Sherlock to be the one to tell her. She knew him as if he was her child; she also knew that he wouldn't admit to his feelings if she just asked him bluntly. She waited.

"Nothing Mrs. Hudson. I'm… just…" Sherlock sighed and took a couple of deep breaths.

"Nothing" He repeated. Mrs. Hudson climbed the stairs and walk in through the open door. Putting her hand on his back in comfort. Sherlock swerved into her warm embrace. They stayed like that for a couple minutes. Sherlock, keeping his emotions internal, was still glad to have her there. She was like the mother that never was.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." Was all he could muster up.

"You're too good for him, darling" Mrs. Hudson replied "I will go and put the kettle on, just this once but don't get used to it. I'm not your housekeeper."

Mrs. Hudson walked over to the kitchen and started to rummage through the cupboards. Mumbling about the mess, before giving up entirely and going back into her apartment to grab her own kettle.

There was a silence that followed. Sherlock heard a ringing noise coming from his coat pocket. He sighed, closing his eyes and reaching for his coat. There, he found the pink phone.

"Interesting." he murmured, a smug grin on his face, A distraction, finally. Blocked caller. He picked it up and waited. There was ragged breathing on the other end. Sherlock knew the drill; he waited some more, smiling with glee at this new pass time.

"Sherlock Holmes... we are... speaking again at last." His expression changed to one of horror.

"John" he whispered,

"Yes... I know... Clever... aren't I Shirley... Join us... Will you?... I am sure... Johnny is just... Dying to see you..." suddenly he heard footsteps on the other line, soft murmuring and then... THWACK. John cried out in blinding pain. Sherlock screamed into the receiver

"NO! Stop it! John! JOHN!" the phone line went dead. Sherlock sat on his living room floor, phone glued to his ear as if it was his life preserver. The only thing of John he had left.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **

**I really liked writing this chapter :)**

**Any feedback or suggestions would be wonderful!**

* * *

Sherlock was running. It was a labyrinth of underground tunnels. There were six different paths and doorways. None of them were leading him to where he needed to go. Every time he would go through one of them, he would come to three more. Every time he tried to go back, he would find himself lost. The only thing that kept him going was that he could hear John's screams. They were barely audible, but there nonetheless. He could hear them. Whenever he tried to call out to him, the tunnels would absorb the sound and echo it back in the detective's face, as if the walls were mocking him, laughing John's name a thousand times over. Sherlock couldn't move forwards, legs gave out from beneath him and he sank to the floor, letting out a scream of exasperation and anger. The walls echoed it back again and again and again.

Silence.

There was a clicking of heels and a giggle, which seemed loud and taunting in his ears. Sherlock looked up. Moriarty, pistol in hand, stood over him, grinning like the psychopath he was.

"Miss me?" he chuckled.

"Not particularly" Sherlock said, mustering all his energy and using it to pull himself to his feet.

He looked Moriarty in the eye, staring him down.

"Please Mr. Holmes, have some manners." Moriarty wiped his dirty hands on his pants.

Sherlock started to analyze Moriarty's shirt. Find John. The blood on his sleeve was obviously not his own. John. The pistol hadn't been used, ever. Not dead. Find John. He was at a loss. Moriarty had planned ahead.

"Your pet was very helpful to me. He really thinks too highly of you, you know." he tapped his finger on his temple.

"Where is he?"

"Patience dear Sherlock"

"Now. I don't have the time for your stupid games"

"Don't ruin the fun!" he pouted like a six year old morphing it slowly into a grin.

"But, I guess you can have your way. I always play fair."

Behind the criminal mastermind, two trained snipers, clad with weapons were dragging John in. The only sound was John's hitched breathing and the dripping of a leaky pipe. His face was slashed from the middle of his forehead to his right ear. His leg was turned inward at an awkward angle; his bare arms and chest were covered in welts and bruises, his eyes seemed hollow and defeated. Sherlock didn't even think John knew he was there. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, he ran to his roommate, and held him close, wiping the blood off his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

"John. I'm so sorry," he whispered

"John? John answer me." The man was dropped into Sherlock's arms. His breathing was barely audible.

"John. Please." the detective took John's face in both his hands. The doctor's eyes fluttered open and he relaxed into his roommate's warm embrace. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief.

"You're here," John whispered in Sherlock's ear.

"I will always be here for you" Sherlock said with a small smile.

Moriarty let out a snort.

"Sherlock Holmes. You didn't strike me as a romantic type. Relationships aren't in your area of expertise. It's rather disturbing." Moriarty picked up the gun and shot John straight through the head without even blinking.

"Oops" he said stifling a giggle.

...

Sherlock woke up screaming. Mrs. Hudson had a cold compress to his head. It had been three days since the first phone call and his dreams had worsened. There hadn't been any clues, not even the usual taunting texts. Nothing. Moriarty had gone off the radar. Sherlock had tried to trace the call but, the line was gone. No hints, no pictures, no nothing. It was like John had never even existed.

"Shhh. Its okay, you were dreaming. You're okay." It was then, as Mrs. Hudson pressed the towel to Sherlock's head, that he said it.

"I loved him."

"I know dear, but he's not gone yet." Mrs. Hudson sat down on the bed and stroked Sherlock's head. Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

"I hope so." Sherlock said calmly, drifting back to sleep "I hope so."

...

_Ping._

_Ping._

Sherlock groaned and checked the bedside clock. Had he actually fallen asleep? That was the first unbroken sleep he'd had in a while.

_Ping._

What was that incessant noise? It wasn't his alarm. Suddenly it hit him and he jumped out of bed feeling for his coat.

_Ping._

He grabbed hold of it and searched the pockets. Not there. Damn. He stumbled out of the room in nothing but his boxers and ran right into Sally Donovan who was sitting in his kitchen with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. They all turned and looked at him. He didn't catch the embarrassment of the situation and ran straight past them tearing up the living room, looking.

_Ping._

"Mrs. Hudson? Did you move my pink phone?"

"Hello to you too" Sally said. Sherlock shot her a murderous look. She shut up.

"Yes, dear. It was such a mess in here! I couldn't help but do a little tidying up. Now, let me see. I believe I put it in the... I think it was the..." Lestrade turned to Sherlock.

"Are you okay? We came to check up on you." Sherlock stared at Mrs. Hudson. Impatience getting more and more prominent on his face. Sally smirked but stayed quiet.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock said warningly. He was beginning to lose patience. "The phone?"

"Ah! Yes that's right, I put it on the mantle underneath that filthy skull of yours." Sherlock gave her a quick glare and ran over to his skull.

**5 New Text messages**

_Miss me?_  
_JM_

_I have a certain John Watson here waiting for you._  
_Don't stand him up. That would be rude._  
_JM_

_How about you bring some food, and join the party._  
_I've already sent out the invites._  
_JM_

_The more the merrier._  
_JM_

_I do love parties! They're great fun._  
_JM_

Attached to the last text there was a picture of John. He was tied to a chair, a gag in his mouth, in the middle of a big empty room, completely conscious, fear in his eyes. He was in a suit. A really expensive suit. He looked goddamn sexy.

"Concentrate" Sherlock murmured to himself. He looked at the picture. Expensive suit, the pant leg was crumpled slightly, crumpled enough to be prominent but not enough to have creased. He hadn't had the suit on for longer than twenty minutes. The restraints, the gag as well as the hemstitches on the suit were fresh. They took a cab. The ride was no longer than ten minutes directly from the tailor who took around fifteen minutes. There had to be something else. Sherlock scanned the picture for a second time and closed his eyes. John had his fingers crossed.

Crossed.

That man was a genius.

"Lestrade, I need you to find me a list of every funeral home in London. Now." Lestrade hopped to his feet.

"John?" he asked. Sherlock nodded.

"There isn't enough time. Call Molly on your way; tell her to get the gray folder on my desk, second from the top. Text me the first three names. Tell her it's urgent." Lestrade was already dialing, rushing out the door. Donovan shot Sherlock a look but was surprised when it was returned with a slightly crazed and absolutely panicked one.

"And what are YOU going to do?" She said, trying to break the odd tension

"I'm going to put on some pants," Sherlock stated as he pushed past her, back into his bedroom.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:**

**Short chapter again. Once again, I've been saving the big payoff for later. **

**Suggestions/ Reviews would be fantastic! I like hearing your opinion :)**

* * *

As far as Sherlock was concerned, the cab was moving at a snail's pace.

"Excuse me," He practically screamed at the driver.

"Could you possibly go any slower?" The cabby mumbled something unintelligent under his breath and tried to weave through traffic to get off the main road. Seconds were ticking by… 2… 3… 4… Sherlock was getting impatient. The texts had become incessant.

_Where are you?  
__JM_

_It's rude to be late!  
__JM_

_Faster!  
__JM_

_Anyone can move faster than you  
__JM_

Sherlock was at the end of his rope, fidgeting, tapping his fingers on his knee. He bit his lip and concentrated on the inhale and exhale of his breath.

"Aw man." The cabby said, pulling on to the main road. American. Interesting. "Rush hour. I don't think that-" But Sherlock had already jumped out of the cab and was running, weaving in and out of cars. He had to get to John and he had to get there faster.

_I don't think you're trying hard enough  
__JM_

There was a photo attached: John, still tied to a chair, now wavering between conscious and unconscious. His nose was bloody and he was holding his ground but it was obvious that he was struggling. There was someone out of frame that John was looking at. Sherlock picked up the pace. The man wasn't Moriarty, he was holding the camera. It could be one of Jim's henchmen but Sherlock saw something in John's eyes that suggested something different.

John recognized the man.

There was a loud honk as Sherlock ran out into traffic. Almost there. There was a buzzing in his pocket.

_I always assumed you were punctual.  
__JM_

Yet another picture was attached.

This time the man's full arm was in view. A black suit. Crystal cufflinks. His hands were slender but rugged; as if this wasn't the first time he had brutally tortured someone. John's eyes were closed, his face contorted in pain as the man's big, meaty arms tugged on his tie, strangling him. Sherlock felt his heart being torn from his chest. He had to move faster. His body wasn't going fast enough. He sprinted through the rush-hour crowds and hoards of tourists. Faster. There was only one thought on his mind. He couldn't zone out. He couldn't just hide in his mind palace. Another buzz from the phone

_It's boring without you here Sherlock, and you know best what happens when I get bored.  
__JM_

Another picture. John, his tie gone, his shirt unbuttoned and burn marks on his neck and chest. His eyes were far away and his power was withering. The man, his jacket off now, had a red-hot poker in his hand.

It took a couple minutes for Sherlock to realize that he had arrived. His body had gone into autopilot. He was there.

There was a phone call.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered

"Hey, I got the file from Molly. What did you want with it?" Lestrade's voice was oddly comforting at that moment.

"Keep it close at hand for now. Text me the first three names." Sherlock said, in a fairly monotone voice. He hung up and took a deep breath, bringing himself back to the reality of the situation. He was never frightened. Not on the outside.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:**

**Hello again! **

**This was a great chapter to write, so much fun.**

**Suggestions and advice are always appreciated :)**

* * *

All he could hear was his blood rushing in his ears and the squeak of the Funeral Home door. His heels clacked on the shiny linoleum and the air tasted stale and sad. He winced at the box of mints sitting on the side table. He hated those. It was a pathetic condolence saying "Sorry that your loved one is dead. Here's a candy to make up for your loss." The room was eerily silent. The cheery-looking bulletin board had but one small post it note on it.

_Room 209. Be quick.  
__JM_

Sherlock sprung into action, down the hall. Room 105, Room 106. Room 107. He opened the door to the stairwell and ran up the stairs two at a time. Room 220, Room 219. He turned the corner and was faced with the door at the end of the hall.

Room 209

He slowed his pace and stopped in front of the door. This was it.

He was about to face his nightmare.

…

The door squeaked in protest on its hinges as Sherlock opened it slowly. Jim turned his head and grinned.

"You finally decided to join us. How nice. Did you bring a bottle of wine? You wouldn't come empty handed, would you?" Sherlock scanned the room. In the middle, John sat, his breathing shallow, burn marks on his chest and back. His shirt, in strips, clung to his bleeding wounds. His head was hanging, as if he didn't have enough strength to hold it himself. Sherlock involuntarily took a step towards him before the red mark light of a gun appeared on his chest. Sherlock scanned for the man who was holding it, looking desperately at John then at Moriarty.

"What do you want?" He asked in a monotone voice. His face was expressionless.

"What don't I already have Sherlock? I don't _want _anything. I am bored, Sherlock. We play cat and mouse, you and I. All I want is to have some _fun_! That's why I arranged this party, Sherlock. You see, you and I don't have fun very often. The guests will be arriving shortly. I have invited my friends, and I have taken the liberty of inviting yours."

"I don't have any" Sherlock murmured, taking the moment to look back at John, who was slowly coming back to his senses. The red light never wavered from Sherlock's chest his brilliant mind was working over-time. It must've been the same man as in the photos.

"Don't be silly Sherlock. I have mustered up quite a few. That woman… Molly, I think her name was. She seemed awfully excited that you had invited her."

"I didn't invite anyone," Sherlock said. He furrowed his eyebrows. If he could only find a way to get the mystery gunman out in the open.

"Oh yes you did." Jim said, tossing Sherlock an envelope, catching him off guard. He caught it and broke the seal. On the card, a hand written message was printed in black ink, inviting the reader to a holiday party. The handwriting was clearly Sherlock's own. Sherlock chuckled, despite himself.

"Very good, almost believe it myself. May I ask who is on the guest list?" This time it was Moriarty's turn to laugh.

"No. I like to see you think on your feet. It's all part of the game."

Suddenly, John started to violently cough. His hold body was shaking and his head was rolling back and forth, unconscious. He needed help. Despite his clear instruction not to, Sherlock ran to his roommate, lifting his face upwards and opening his airway.

"John. Breathe." He commanded as many alarms went off in his head. "Come on, John." Sherlock pressed lightly on the man's stomach while untying his bonds. Every instinct he had was telling him to run. The knot was untied and Sherlock pressed again on John's stomach. John wasn't responding, his breathing worsened. Sherlock dragged him to the floor.

"Come _ON_!" He yelled at his dying roommate. There was a long silence, as Sherlock continued to press on his stomach hoping for any improvement.

"Please, John." Sherlock whispered, softly to his friend, pressing one last time. John's eyes shot open and he struggled to his feet before vomiting over the back of the chair. Sherlock's face softened with relief as John sank to the floor, slowly.

Moriarty chortled.

"Oh I see!" He said and squinted his eyes.

"Sherlock, why don't you tell John what you really think about him." Sherlock looked as John's head began to teeter on his neck. He was passing out again. Sherlock panicked, he didn't know if John would leave him for good.

"Stop it John." he said looking into his eyes. "Stay, with me… I… I love you."

There was a long silence. The only sound that could be heard was John's ragged breathing.

"What?" John said, furrowing his eyebrows. It was all coming back to him. The way Sherlock was treating him wasn't anger, it was very, very different. John's eyes widened.

"Sherlock, I don't…" He trailed off. Sherlock's eyes widened and went glossy.

"Oh, I am... I just..." John looked over at Moriarty who was grinning from ear to ear.

"Too bad John doesn't feel the same way! Oh, pooey! I hate when things go rotten. Do you want some help Shirley? I could help you know, I can play matchmaker," he laughed again.

John, getting up to fight, nearly blacked out in Sherlock's arms.

"It's ok, I've got you now" Sherlock laid him down on the floor. Moriarty walked over and stood, looking down on them.

"Oh yes, I can play matchmaker." He snarled.

"Kiss him." Sherlock took a moment of surprise and looked down at John. His nose was bleeding, his leg was badly hurt and his wrists were all bloody from the bonds. The remnants of his suit clung to his legs and arms in an anxious mess. Sherlock shivered.

"Or what?" Sherlock asked, trying to hide the humiliation. No emotion.

A red pointer light appeared on John's forehead.

Sherlock looked down at John and the two shared a moment of apologies and forgiveness before Sherlock leaned down, feeling the warmth of his only friend's body against his own and locked John's lips in his, something he had wanted to do for a very long time. He took in John's sweet taste and the feel of his unshaven cheek against his own, before pulling away, staring into John's eyes for a few seconds, feeling John's breath graze his upper lip.

Moriarty let out a wolf whistle.

"Now, you two, we don't have all day! The party is so soon, and you both are a messy mess."

"No Jim, that is it. No more. You've done enough. We don't want to play" John stood up, using Sherlock as leverage. Suddenly, something in the shadows moved menacingly towards John and he flinched involuntarily.

"You, stop it." He said as the man stepped out of the shadows.

He was tall with a strong build. His chocolate colored hair a controlled mess on his head. There was a scar that snaked down from his right cheekbone to the underside of his chin. Sherlock noted that his posture made him a military man, and his hands were steady and his shot never wavered. He never missed. He was a trained killer Sherlock examined John's face and a moment passed before Moriarty spoke

"You had a pet, I decided to get one too. He has been very useful, you were smart in deciding in an army man."

Sherlock looked from John to the Moriarty's henchmen and back again as Jim pulled out to suit boxes and lay them down in front of Sherlock.

"Suit. Now. Party in an hour." Sherlock looked at John for an explanation, anything at all. John's gaze never left from the army man's face.

"We served together in Afghanistan." He said softly.

"Moran. Sebastian Moran."


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **

**Hello again. **

**Suggestions, ideas and reviews are, as always, appreciated. **

* * *

Moriarty finished tying John's tie and pat his cheek playfully.

"See, much better!" Sherlock tugged against his bonds.

"You look dashing." Jim made kissy faces at his prisoner, looping a belt around his waist. He stopped, started to do up the buckle, leaning in particularly close to John, bringing his lips a breath away from his ear.

"Sexy, even." John inhaled sharply, trying to stay emotionless despite his obvious discomfort. Sherlock, caught off guard, glanced over at Sebastian and saw him glaring at Jim's out of character display of affection. Sherlock watched the killer's anger building.

Jim chuckled, aware of Sebastian's reaction. He motioned for him to untie Sherlock and turned back to John, grinning, gun in hand. The doctor's face had been washed, his wounds covered by the fabric of his shirt and thick coats of makeup. The only thing that gave his injuries away, was with every step he took, he cried out in pain. Sherlock leapt to his feet and stepped toward his roommate, trying to not let jealousy over come him. It was a part of the game, Sherlock knew. At the party, they couldn't give away what was happening or it would be over. And it being over was not an option. Jim really was a tease.

"Needing this?" Jim said, waving John's cane around in the air. Sherlock grabbed it and handed it to his roommate. John teetered but stayed standing and managed to look stable enough. Jim crossed the room and put a hand on John's cheek.

"You're a monster" John whispered, inches away from his face.

"Don't be too angry with me, you know what happens when I get angry" John, in a sudden fit of weakness, fell forward into Jim's arms. They were oddly comforting and strong around him. Terrified, he tried to struggle out, but found it useless. He let himself relax and gather his strength. Jim smiled and pet his head.

"Shhh darling, don't worry, things will turn out." he pet John's head and looked straight at Sherlock. The two locked eyes. Jim leaned down and gave John's head a little kiss, taking in his smell. Sherlock took deep breaths and tried to control his anger. He found himself in sync with Sebastian, who had managed to stay silent the entire time.

There was a soft knock at the door and it squeaked open. Mrs. Hudson hobbled in holding a small cake decorated with jellybeans.

"John, dear! We were so worried about you." Mrs. Hudson placed her cake on one of the tables as Jim reluctantly sat John down on the chair next to him. Mrs. Hudson pulled John into a strangling hug and gave him a kiss on each cheek. She looked him up and down.

"You look awful, what happened?" Jim crossed over to Sherlock and patted the chest of his suit, reminding both men of the gun he had and the sniper he was in control of. There was a long pause as John started formulating a lie. Sebastian crossed over to Mrs. Hudson and smiled politely. She took in his appearance. His nice suit, dashing good looks. When she got to his face she paused a moment before looking away. Sebastian's act wavered for an instant. There wasn't ever a way to lessen the impact of the scar. He hated it and he hated the same stare-but-don't-stare that came with it.

"Sorry to be so rude, my name is Sebastian, but people call me Seb. John and I served in Afghanistan together and Jim and I –" he had a clear smooth voice, an upper class dialect but it was tainted with the gruffness of jealousy. He did a very good job at hiding it. Only Sherlock really knew what was happening.

"- are colleagues, and dear friends. Our mothers both gave birth in the same hospital." Jim said, cutting off the end of Seb's sentence. Sebastian whipped around to look at Moriarty who seemed unfazed and was smiling at Mrs. Hudson.

"Well, this is exciting!" Mrs. Hudson smiled back.

"Why don't we put on some music?"

Over the next half hour, the room started filling with people. Some that Sherlock knew, some that he didn't. A lot of them were from Bart's, a couple of guests Sherlock knew from old cases. Even Anderson showed up, but he didn't seem too pleased. Lestrade walked through the doors and straight over to Sherlock.

"You found John?" he said, confused. Jim walked up behind Sherlock and placed a hand on the small of his back as a reminder. For a man a whole head shorter than him, he was devastated to find that Moriarty held a great amount of power over him.

"Uh... Yes, well... He had just wanted to make up to me for storming out. He set all this up, saved me the trouble." he lied.

"But what about all that stuff with the names and Molly and - "

"Rubbish. A false lead that John planted. I don't give him enough credit. He surprises me sometimes." He looked over his shoulder at Jim who smiled innocently back at him. He softly cleared his throat

"I'm sorry, where are my manners? This is Jim Moriarty; he works in IT at Bart's. This is Gregory Lestrade he's my... We are..." Lestrade smiled

"We're friends" he said. Sherlock was always confused about his relationship with Greg. They weren't exactly colleagues, since they didn't really work together but they hardly saw each other on a basis that wasn't work-related. He smiled back at him.

"Yes, friends." Sherlock saw Jim's pleasant smile falter for only a second when he turned to see Sebastian chatting with John. The two were laughing hysterically as if one of them hadn't just almost killed the other, and they were acting like the best of friends. Sherlock took a second to assess the situation. Sebastian was stunning. He seemed very modest about it, probably due to the scar and his obvious uneasiness with it on his face. It looked only a couple years old. John looked over at Sherlock and smiled lightly. Sherlock waved and turned to Jim.

"I have to use the men's room. If you'll excuse me." he walked to the door directly inside the party room and closed it behind him. Jim soon followed suit, catching Sherlock's hint. As soon as the door closed, Sherlock stepped forward.

"What's the catch?" He said angrily

"Pardon?"

"What do I have to do to make you stop? We are obviously not here to have fun."

"Oh, Sherlock. A smart man like you should have figured this one out already." Sherlock was confused. He didn't understand the situation and it was driving him insane. It was like Moriarty had, in his mind, a crazy social experiment and was trying to wrap Sherlock around his finger. It was working.

"I'm not here for you, Sherlock. I'm here for John. I really hope you don't mind, but your roommate has a very fantastic aura about him. Plus, there is the added bonus of you, the jealous psychopath. I figure things can get very interesting."

"Sociopath." Sherlock growled.

"It won't work, you are trying to woo him through violence? That is sick."

"What about you Sherlock? You are the one who has been in love with him for, how long? You haven't told him anything. And why not? I jumped at the chance, and now it's too late. Go out, enjoy the party, Sherlock and stop trying to figure out the puzzle, there isn't one this time."

Moriarty pushed past Sherlock and the door of the bathroom closed softly. There was silence.

What had he done? Sherlock started to hyperventilate. The small bathroom seemed to be caving in on him. John wouldn't let this happen. He wouldn't do anything. Nothing would happen. Sherlock was scared and angry and he was helpless. Helpless. He curled himself into a little ball and rocked back and forth, willing it to be a dream.

There was a soft creak as one of the bathroom stall doors opened and Mycroft stepped out and took his baby brother in his arms.

"Sherlock. It's going to be okay." He said.

"But he's mine."

"John is a big boy, he can make his own decisions. The right decisions." Mycroft helped Sherlock to his feet and cleaned him up.

"Enjoy the party. Don't worry."

Sherlock was pushed out the bathroom door and back out into the devil's party.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN:**

**Thanks to everyone for the reviews, they're most appreciated as always.**

**I really enjoyed writing this chapter! :)**

* * *

Sherlock distractedly mingled with the other party guests, but his mind was somewhere else. He had a conversation with a tall man from Bart's and a woman that he had helped get out of prison for some crime that she may or may not have committed. Jim had worked his way over to John and the two were laughing about something. Sherlock had walked over to an empty table and sat back, watching the group of people slow dancing in the middle of the room to "Baby, its Cold outside" He sat down with a tall glass of champagne and swirled it around in his mouth. The heat was becoming unbearable and he just wanted to go home and curl up in his room and sulk. All of this was shocking his system and he felt like he had been hit with a ton of bricks. The party was terrible. Sebastian sat down beside him and sighed. Sherlock didn't even bother looking up from the bubbling drink in his hand.

"You don't look too good." Sebastian sounded genuinely concerned. The song continued to play and a plate smashed at the back of the room. There was a nervous giggle and a moment of discomfort before everyone went back to what they were doing.

"I don't feel very well either." He replied smoothly.

The man beside him laughed and took a sip of whatever he was drinking "He loves you, you know."

Sherlock expressed amusement for the first time that evening.

"That is very likely." He said sarcastically and turned to see Sebastian smiling at him."And what would you know anyway."

"I spent 3 years with him in Afghanistan. We were inseparable; I have never seen him look at anyone the way he does to you. You may not be lovers, but you sure as hell have changed his life forever."

"I highly doubt that. He doesn't need me. I need him. Without him, I might as well be back to where I started."

"Stop squandering all that. Be proud of it. There are many people who try to wiggle their way into people's lives, to make themselves the life-preserver to someone else, to have what you and John have, but can't. Just take what you can get."

"I can't. I need more." He said in a monotone voice that made Sebastian squirm a little in his seat.

"There are people who would kill to be as close to someone as you are to John, but they can't. They will just have to accept their fate and move on, and that's not an easy thing. You have all of that, why waste it. Just be happy together. Find someone else for all the romantic stuff. It could be so much worse, he could not even look your way or he could forget you exist sometimes." Sherlock looked up from his drink to catch Sebastian's eyes fixated on Jim's face. Sherlock realized that Sebastian wasn't talking about John anymore. He reflexively put a hand on Sebastian's back and rubbed it along the soft fabric of his suit.

"Don't worry. He's just your average, run of the mill psychopath. You'll find others. There are plenty of fish in the sea." He said.

Sebastian smiled and let out a breath. "Well this party is turning out to be a bust."

Sherlock nodded before replying "I think its pretty good considering it was a last minute decoy for a murder - "

Sebastian chuckled

"- and the venue is in a funeral home. But I must agree the mini sandwiches are appalling and this music is making my ears bleed."Sherlock said, smiling and Sebastian laughed again running a hand through his hair.

Sherlock found it odd that Sebastian and him were getting on so well. He still remembered that cruel sneer that not two hours before had been on his face as he leaned over John with a fire poker. This was all a part of the cruel game. His politeness was just a façade. He shivered and took his hand off the other man's back.

"Don't –" Sebastian started and stopped himself. This wasn't how he should be feeling in the moment. He was a ruthless killer, he reminded himself. He wanted to kill and he wanted to get money. He looked into the eyes of a man he had met only a few hours earlier and was suddenly unsure of what he wanted. He shook his head and got up

"I need some air."

…

Jim left the bathroom with a big smile on his face. Sherlock was so easy to manipulate. He swore that he didn't have feelings, that he didn't have emotions, but it was so obviously false. This small party was only the first small step in Jim's big plan. He had known his main goal, the second he had laid eyes on Sherlock's "assistant." The coarse blond hair, the handsome, rugged face. He knew that was the way to get Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes did have feelings. When it came to Jim, one feeling was too many feelings. He crossed the room to where John was standing. Trying to be seductive was going to be rather interesting, Jim mused. He picked up two glasses of some sort of punch and walked over to John, handing him one with a smile.

"Enjoying the party?" he said, raising an eyebrow. John's blank stare was suddenly filled with confusion. "Um… yes, I guess so."

Jim watched as John shifted his position so that he could scan the room for Sherlock.

"You rely on him to much." Jim said, sipping his drink. John looked him straight in the eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't need him, you know. I bet if you needed to, you could let go of him. You don't need him leading you around."

"I don't think that this is any of your business."

"Everything is my business when it comes to Sherlock." Jim snarled.

"Well, whatever you're trying to get out of me, it isn't going to work." John chugged the drink that Moriarty had brought him and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Jim hissed."That's an expensive suit. Don't ruin it."

John laughed and wittily replied. "So it's the suit that worries you"

Jim couldn't help but smile. John was clever. He could see why Sherlock liked having him around. He was like a puppy, seeking attention. It felt kind of nice.

"I don't think it's the only thing that worries me." Jim watched as Sherlock walked out of the washroom with no expression on his face. Emotions. He didn't quite understand the concept. He wasn't entirely sure he had any. Maybe that was just a side effect to being a psychopath. He liked how Sherlock could do that, not show expression. That sort of thing had always puzzled him. He himself, liked to take the overly expressive route. He thought it made him more overwhelming. Scarier. Come to think of it, he had never met someone who wasn't terrified of him. Unless, of course, he had on a persona. His approach always came out victorious. Beat that Sherlock Holmes. He smiled to himself before turning back to John. Sudden realization washed over him.

John hadn't been scared of him the day they really met.

They had met the one time, but he had been Jim from IT. Molly's gay boyfriend Jim. When he had abducted John, he hadn't struggled, he hadn't done much. He had been calm and had taken every order Jim had given him. It was obvious his time in the army had given him the courage he needed for stuff like that, but even Sebastian hadn't stayed as calm when Jim had met him. He looked over at John who had taken a moment to adjust his tie.

"What is it that worries you then?" John said, pulling Jim out of his thoughts and brought back to the task at hand. He took a deep breath and planted the seed to what would grow into a giant ploy to get Sherlock.

"I hope you don't hate me too much."

John laughed and Jim was so shaken by the reaction that he found himself joining him as well. He glanced back over at Sherlock's table and watched Sebastian cross over and sit next to the tall man. He liked Seb. The two of them got along well and Jim liked the attention. He found it amusing to play with Sebastian's emotions. He took another sip of his punch and looked back a John who was still giggling, giddy with the effects of alcohol. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Sherlock put a hand on Seb's back.

John caught it too and sighed, looking at Jim. "I'm going to pretend for a moment that I don't think you're absolutely unsettling and ask you something, since you seem to know a little too much about Sherlock."

Jim nodded but didn't smile. He felt funny. He couldn't place it, but his chest hurt. He pushed the feeling out of his mind. He didn't feel. Ever. John had fallen for the 'nice guy' act that Jim was putting on. He shook himself out of this odd slump and cocked an eyebrow at John "Go on" He whispered

"I don't know, I just hope he gets over this phase. I just didn't think Sherlock was capable of having feelings towards anyone," John said, concerned.

Jim snorted "Sherlock is more than capable of having feelings John. It's his weakness."

John ignored the comment. "I just don't want to feel torn. I don't think I could live without him in my life. He was my resurrection. I was in a slump and he was my anchor. He's just not… I'm not interested in… He's a man. I don't think… I mean. I know… I just…" The thought was lost as John mulled it over in his head.

Jim smiled and put a hand on John's shoulder and stroked his thumb over the little bit of skin showing at his neck. John winced at the touch. "Gender is a subjective barrier John. It's like attractiveness or beauty. Don't think for a second that just because you are straight, you can't be attracted to another man. People miss the love of their lives for their ignorance" Jim leaned in and planted a small kiss on skin between John's jaw line and ear.

John realized that it wasn't Sherlock that Jim was referring to. He sucked in a breath of air, remembering what Sherlock had said. He was playing a horrid game. John tried to keep himself calm. He bit his tongue until he drew blood.

"You are sickening," He hissed in Moriarty's ear as Jim traced little kisses down his neck. He scanned the room to make sure no one was watching. He caught Sebastian's eye before the criminal got up and walked out of the room, distressed. John pushed him away and Jim instinctively put a hand to the gun in his pocket. The doctor was reminded of the severity of the situation. He sighed and turned away to go get another drink, even though he knew he didn't need one. Jim smiled in unrestrained glee. John had thought for an odd moment that maybe Jim was just like Sherlock, your average run-of-the-mill psychopath. Apparently not so. Jim was too far gone to be anything but murderous.

Jim glanced over at Sherlock who's face was firm, eyebrows furrowed, lost in thought. He looked up and the two men exchanged a look. Sherlock looked away first and Jim thought he saw a deep bought of sadness cross over the detective's face, but it could have been the light.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: **

**Reviews, Comments and Suggestions are as usual greatly appreciated. **

* * *

John was bothered by Sherlock's behaviour. It had been 3 days since the unfortunate party, and Sherlock hadn't spoken a word to him. He hadn't spoken a word to anyone. It wasn't the normal "thinking" silence that Sherlock usually had. It was a pitiful silence. It was full of anxiety. He just sat, staring out the window, unmoving. John had had enough. This wasn't what he was used to, and he was done acting like his caretaker. He liked it better when Sherlock was being rude. He wasn't sure what he felt. His feelings for the consulting detective were mixed and muddled. Watching him flirt with Sebastian. He shuddered. Sherlock's phone was going crazy.

_We have a new case for you._  
_GL_

_It's a murder amongst murders_  
_GL_

_I need your help_  
_GL_

_Hello?_  
_GL_

_The body has unusually markings on its left ring finger. Resembles two other bodies we found last week._  
_GL_

_If you don't text me, I'm calling you._  
_GL_

**1 missed call – Gregory Lestrade**

_I warned you. Pick up._  
_GL_

**2 missed calls – Gregory Lestrade**

_Sherlock, please respond to your friend. He is now calling me. Don't make me pay you a visit_  
_MH_

**3 missed calls – Gregory Lestrade**

**1 missed call – Mycroft Holmes**

_Pick up._  
_MH_

_Hey Sherlock, we have two new bodies, I was wondering if you wanted to come by and take a look at them, then we could go for lunch or something. I had a good time at your party the other day. _  
_ - Molly_

**2 missed calls – Mycroft Homes**

**4 missed calls – Gregory Lestrade**

_You bastard, we need you._  
_GL_

**5 missed calls – Gregory Lestrade**

_I don't have time for your foolishness_  
_MH_

Eventually, John just turned it off for him. Sherlock would answer it later. Hopefully.

Neither of them left the apartment for the next three days. They needed recovery time.

…

The party had started to whither when Lestrade had gotten so drunk that he had vomited on Mycroft's new shoes. Sebastian had been outside for a couple minutes before John joined him. They stood in silence for a while before either said anything.

"If it counts for anything, sorry for torturing you."

"That's awfully out of character for a serial killer." John said. About half way through the night, his eye had started bruising and he was forced to make up a cover story. It now looked fairly painful and was starting to swell.

"I just don't really know what the hell is going on inside my head right now. It could be the alcohol talking." Sebastian ran his ringers through his hair as he spoke.

John sighed and wiped his nose.

"You're going to let Sherlock and I go home, right." He said it more as a command than a question.

"Yeah. That's Jim's plan. Screw over your relationship, and then leave you to fend for yourselves. I don't really understand this whole thing. It seems awfully complicated."

"That sounds like Moriarty."

"What I mean is, he thinks he's such a big shot but he doesn't even do any of the dirty work. I don't think he's killed anyone directly in his entire life. What he's doing to you is fairly awful anyway. With the whole 'plan zero' thing and the blueprints and plans and scheming towards the big end where Sherlock and him end up - "

Jim walked over to Sebastian and placed his hand on the back of his neck, bringing the man's head down to his height and violently whispering into his underling's ear, before speaking to John.

"This has been a lovely party, but we must be going. Thank you."

John was confused but saw faint panic behind Sebastian's eyes as the two walked through the door and out of the party.

…

"Eat. Sherlock. Please." John said, placing an omelette in front of the detective. Sherlock's expression didn't change.

"If you don't I'll smash your violin."

There was silence. John sighed and walked away leaving the omelette where it was. After the party Sherlock hadn't eaten… he hadn't eaten before the party either, but this seemed different. More solemn and hollow.

To his surprise, when he returned, the plate was empty and Sherlock was swallowing the last piece.

"Uh…" was all John managed to get out.

"I didn't want you to smash my violin." Sherlock pouted. John was confused. Sherlock hadn't said anything for the last 72 hours. These few words were a big improvement.

"Anything else you would like, Sherlock?"

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

John set off to the kitchen, scrambling to find a mug and put the kettle on. He felt a huge wave of relief wash over him. He had been worried sick. He felt a hand on the small of his back and his roommate leaned his head on his shoulder. The two stood there in silence for a long time before John turned and looked at him, their faces were inches away. Sherlock seemed calm but his eyes were desperate and crazed. He leaned forward. John wasn't sure what he was feeling. What his emotions were doing. Jim's words echoed in his head.

'_Gender is a subjective barrier John. It's like attractiveness or beauty. Don't think for a second that just because you are straight, you can't be attracted to another man. People miss the love of their lives for their ignorance'_

"Listen, Sherlock. I don't think I can do this. I don't… I'm not…"

Sherlock stopped in surprise and wilted. It was as if John had slapped him across the face. He walked back over to his perch at the window and sat in silence. The kettle went off and John was so surprised that he burned himself trying to turn it off. He looked over at Sherlock who hadn't moved, but a soft smile danced on the corners of his lips.

John walked over to his friend and took his hand instinctively.

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock surprised John yet again by crossing the room to answer it. Mrs. Hudson hobbled in and kissed Sherlock on each cheek, squealing in delight.

"I heard the good news. Sorry to wake you. Lestrade told me. It has been going around the office over there. Apparently they had to find out through some bloke that they met at that party of yours. So very charming, he was. His name was…Jordan? James? Jim? Something of the sort. I am so happy for you nonetheless."

Sherlock shot John a look that could only mean panic. Mrs. Hudson didn't notice.

"What are you so happy about, exactly?" John asked.

"Your engagement, silly."


	10. Chapter 10

**AN:**

**Hello again! Sorry that this chapter is so short. I did like it though. More like a segue than a full chapter...**

**The usual: Suggestions, Reviews and Comments are lovely :)**

* * *

John and Sherlock stood in stunned silence for a while. Engaged? John had presumed Jim would do something more discreet, something that hit closer to home. He knew there was a catch though, something this embarrassing wouldn't just end there. He sighed and realized that Sherlock was squeezing his hand. Sherlock smiled at Mrs. Hudson with frantic eyes, something that only John could have noticed.

"Yes, we are. That is correct. I proposed last week. I didn't want to make it public until John was ready. We only told…" Sherlock's smile wavered "Jim… He is fairly… close to us." Sherlock broke his glance away from Mrs. Hudson and pulled out his cell phone from his coat pocket. Sure enough, John saw from over his shoulder, there was a text message.

_I always love happy endings, don't you?  
__JM_

There was an eeriness in the simplicity of Jim's message. John was sure there was a threat involved. He would have to play along. Sherlock tensed as he felt John plant a kiss on his cheek.

"I'm off to shop. We are out of milk again. Apparently my… fiancé can't fend for himself." John walked passed Mrs. Hudson and out the door. He took a walk around the block taking deep and frantic breaths, trying to calm down.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

_I will be sending some early wedding gifts if you boys get too out of hand, don't spoil the fun. This game of cat and mouse has been highly amusing and it's just getting started. Why don't you go out and celebrate?  
__JM_

Wedding gifts. Right. That didn't sound too good. John picked up his pace and rounded the corner to the small supermarket there. Inside he picked up some milk, absent mindedly going to the machine and paying before leaving.

When he returned, Sherlock hadn't moved. John slammed the door behind him.

"Milk."

"It's sour" Sherlock responded. John sighed and put it in the fridge anyway. He crossed the room and looked his roommate in the eye.

"Sherlock, what the hell are we going to do!" John's tone of voice had become frenetic and he paced back and forth as Sherlock sat calmly, in contrast.

"Go with it, of course. I didn't think Moriarty would take it to such extremes. I mean I figured when I said that I loved you… I just didn't think he would spread it so quickly. I'm so sorry John"

"Are you apologizing?" John was genuinely surprised, Sherlock never was sorry. For anything.

"Yes. I believe I am." Sherlock let a smile spread across his face before he scooped John into a warm embrace. He leaned into his ear and breathed hotly into his best friend's ear

"I have 5 possible ways to win this, but all of them involve playing his game. John. I don't like losing. you know that. I'm not one for grand romantic gestures but…" Sherlock got down on one knee and pulled out a small blue box.

"… will you marry me?"

John furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't sure what to think of his roommate but he had to do this for Sherlock's plan to work, whatever it was. He sighed, grabbing Sherlock's hand and lifting him to his feet.

"Sure, why not."

"Fantastic. Excellent. Lessons start tomorrow."

"Lessons? What?"

"John, if we are going to pretend to be engaged, we are going to need some practice. Let's face it; people think that we've been sleeping together for months now. We'll have to keep the idea burning, and considering you get extremely uncomfortable when we are at least a foot away from each other, we need practice."

"You don't even like physical contact! You can't stand anyone within your personal bubble, I think you need practice more than I do."

"That's why I said _we,_ John."

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked away, leaving John to reflect on the weirdest decision that he had ever had to make.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: **

**I really wanted to write about Sherlock's father for some reason. He isn't talked about much in the books or the TV show so... It feels a little weird and clunky but I like it :) (Happy Father's Day!)**

**Comment, Suggest Things and Review!**

* * *

Sherlock was terrified he had walked into the house and it was empty. John had been there not seconds earlier. He scoured the house looking for clues; anywhere the man might be hiding. Not a soul peeped at 221b baker st. That day. Sherlock had checked everywhere, called John's cell, checked the living area, in cupboards, behind doors

Buzz Buzz

A buzzing in his pocket stopped Sherlock's frantic searching. A text

_You are so silly Sherlock. Did you ever think to try the bedroom?_  
_JM_

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, sprinting to find his love.

He swung open the door.

What was left of John's body was hanging from the ceiling in a bloody mess. There was a note:

_I always win_  
_JM_

...

Sherlock woke with a start, hyperventilating. His face was wet with tears. He never cried. Ever. Sleep can let people's guards down though, make them vulnerable. He couldn't go back to sleep, he couldn't get the image of John, mutilated, dangling from a rope in his room, out of his mind. He shuddered and got up, his legs wobbly and unstable beneath him. He felt alone and scared. He thought of his father.

Sherlock's father was a tall man, with a head of thick black hair and a stern face. He was born in America, and when he spoke, which was often, he spoke with a very prominent Texan drawl. He was a handsome man, fit and strongly built. He wanted to be a musician, and he played the guitar every waking minute he had. In the summer, he would tan only slightly and it gave him an almost glowing aura, but his big blue eyes were what drew Sherlock's mother to him. There were crinkles around them. He loved to smile.

His father had served in the Vietnam War for a very long time, volunteering when he was only eighteen. In his many years at war he was faced with death many times but always prevailed. A hero of his time. When he was twenty, he was appointed as sergeant, and continued to lead throughout the war. Two years later he was shot in the leg, getting him brought to London for the surgery. In retrospect, London hadn't seemed like the most convenient location to move him, but in his eyes, it was the best thing that life had given him. He would talk about the friends he had made in that month of recovery. His favourite would be the nurse who looked after him. The woman who Sherlock referred to as "mummy." Mycroft would roll his eyes at any mention of his father's war stories, every time that his father would start to speak, but Sherlock was always fascinated by Mr. Holmes's stories. The action, the problems to be solved, what fun it must've been. That was always the point where Mr. Holmes would get very serious and look his youngest son in the eye.

"There isn't fun in war" he would say "there isn't fun in thousands of people dying and waking up everyday hoping that it won't be your last. Hoping that everyone in your group, all your friend and allies are still alive. Don't muck around with your love ones, Sherlock. You only get one chance at living. Don't you ever think that you are an exception." then that would be it and Sherlock would be sent outside to play, thinking about how he would follow his father's advice and never let his loved ones go either.

There were a couple of nights, every month, where Mr. Holmes would go out until late and when he returned he would smell like cigarettes and alcohol. Sherlock's mother would come into his room that he shared with his brother and lock the door behind her, before snuggling into the cover beside her youngest and petting his head while whispering reassuring words. At around four or five in the morning, the yelling would start and the respected war hero would start to get violent. He would throw the delicate china plates at the walls, break the cabinet doors off their hinge and yell and swear and cry. The worst part would be trying to pretend not to hear it. Sherlock would close his eyes really tight and imagine he was a pirate, discovering a beautiful castle in the middle of nowhere to claim as his own. This castle later developed into a palace. His mind palace. His hands would shake as he hid under the covers.

Sherlock observed his hands and realized they were shaking now too. He hobbled into the kitchen, his chest tightening with fear. He tried to slow his heartbeat. He couldn't. He rushed up the stairs to John's room.

...

John had taken the night to mull over everything. Lessons. Engagement. Being proposed to. His feelings. He tried to shake the feeling of embarrassment that he had. That's what Jim wants, he repeated in his head. He didn't think he liked Sherlock the way Jim seemed to want him to. Didn't Jim want him too?He wasn't certain, but hadn't Jim been flirting with him at the party. He shuddered at the thought and pushed it away. He was probably just imagining things. This was a maniacal psychopath he was thinking about. John sat in bed and watched the hours roll by on his bedside table clock and slowly drifted into a nice light sleep.

...

John felt something warm wriggle into the bed next to him, jolting him out of his sleep.

"Sherlock?" he whispered

"Mmmmhmmm" Sherlock quietly sighed back

"What are you doing?"

"It's midnight, officially tomorrow. Lessons are starting" it was a lame excuse, both men were aware, but John didn't have the energy to argue.

He grumbled a feeble protest before closing his eyes. In a few minutes he was lightly snoring. Sherlock turned and nuzzled his head into the part between John's shoulder and neck.

"Sweet dreams," he whispered before drifting off to sleep as well.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN:**

**An announcement: Chapter 8 has been redone and is now a lot easier to follow! I suggest you go back and read it :)**

**Again: Comments, Suggestions and Reviews are greatly appreciated! **

* * *

There was a tap on John's back pulling him out of his dreams. Sherlock was up and dressed in his usual attire along with his coat and his scarf. He had laid out clothes for John at the end of the bed.

"Good morning John. Lesson One: We're going to brunch. Get dressed." Sherlock walked out of the room and softly closed the door.

John groggily walked over to the washroom and took a quick shower. He badly needed a shave but since the cut on his chin was still healing he decided to skip it. He put on the shirt and pants that Sherlock had chosen. The shirt was a beautiful purple colour and fit him nicely but Sherlock had cleverly snipped off the first few buttons and the neckline was showing just a bit of John's chest. The pants he had never seen before and as he put them on he realized how tight fitting they were. Extremely tight fitting.

As he walked out of the room and down into the kitchen, he watched as Sherlock assessed him, watching his every move. He grabbed his coat from the hook and Sherlock showed him the way out the door. They hailed a cab and Sherlock gave the cabby the directions. John sat, staring out the window. How had he gotten himself into this. He wondered if he just hadn't left that day, if he hadn't been so angry with Sherlock, they wouldn't be in this mess. He didn't now what to feel for the man sitting beside him. Sherlock was so slender and elegant. John was the exact opposite, clunky and awkward and behind all the time. He wondered what was going through Sherlock's mind. Probably too many things for John to comprehend. He wondered if that was why Sherlock was so introverted, if he tried to show emotions, maybe it would be nonsensically overwhelming. Maybe Jim was right, it wasn't that Sherlock didn't have feelings, maybe he just had too many to show. Through the window's reflection, he caught Sherlock sneaking looks at him. Sherlock was smiling.

They pulled up to a cute little brunch café in the middle of the city. Sherlock had made reservations and they were seated outside. He adored to people watch.

They both ordered and sat waiting in silence.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't know what to tell you. I still can't believe we're doing this." John was feeling uncomfortable. His shirt was too revealing, his pants were too tight and he was sitting across from a brilliant man who he may or may not have feelings for and was pretending to be his fiancé because if he didn't he'd die. Sherlock always had a plan though; John just hoped he was right.

There was suddenly a hand on the collar of John's shirt as Sherlock pulled him in extremely close to his face. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his cheek and he stared into his roommate's eyes.

"Listen John," Sherlock whispered violently "you will go along with this process without questioning its purpose or relevance, because from now on everything we do, inside or outside of 221b is being watched and we have to make _everyone_ believe this… act"

John thought he heard Sherlock's voice crack on the word act, but he could have been mistaken.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I just get so…" John trailed off.

"I understand. It will be over as quick as it started." Sherlock said before pulling away from John who was nodding absentmindedly.

The waitress came back and winked at John before leaning over him to give Sherlock his food. Her extremely low-cut top and exposed upper torso bumped him as she moved past him and set his food down in front of him. She batted her eyelashes.

"Can I ask what a handsome man like you does as a profession?" She said. It was pretty bad pick up line, but she didn't seem like the most intelligent of women.

"I'm a doctor"

"Oooooh!" She squealed, puckering her red, lipstick smothered lips. John glanced over at Sherlock who seemed uninterested and was examining his food, as if he was deciding whether he was going it eat it or not. John was oddly uninterested in the ridiculous woman flirting with him. She was someone who before the party, he would have brought home without a second thought. She was now going on about something to do with doctors but he wasn't listening. He reached over and grabbed Sherlock's hand, making her stop in her tracks.

"My fiancé is a detective. A very good one. Isn't that right, sweetheart?" John looked over at Sherlock who had lifted his head, a smug look on his face.

"Yes, that's correct. I do private detective work. And you are a waitress, is that correct?" Sherlock said, looking her innocently in the eye. She just stood there, eyes wide, jaw hanging slightly open.

"Uh… yes, I am a waitress… but I am working to be a dancer." She said. John looked at Sherlock who had lost interest already. He pinched Sherlock's hand, playfully. John's stomach grumbled. He eyed his food hungrily as the waitress finished speaking.

"Sorry, I have a couple of tables to do, I'll come back and check on you." She walked away, swaying her hips. John watched her go. He sighed. A dancer. Damn. He let go of Sherlock's hand and started to eat his food. Sherlock wasn't eating; he was staring intently at John.

"You are a beautiful man." Sherlock said. His face wasn't showing anything.

"Pardon me?"

"I said, you are a beautiful man, John Watson." Sherlock repeated.

"Thank you?" John said, furrowing his eyebrows. Sherlock walked around to the other side of the table and planted a kiss on John's forehead.

"You're welcome." He said as he walked over to the washroom.

John sat there and mulled over what had just happened. What the hell was going on? He didn't know what to feel anymore, and just kept repeating it again in his head. He needed to make a final decision. He did like Sherlock and he liked being his best friend and his roommate, he just, didn't know what to think about all this. Sherlock was an attractive man, he thought. He was intelligent. He was nice, on a good day. Funny; not so much. Charismatic? Sure, if you like talking to inanimate objects. The problem was, he was Sherlock.

Sherlock returned to the table and put a napkin on his lap before looking John in the eye and slowly and subtly turning his head in the direction of another table. John looked over and saw, a man, three heads taller than Sherlock and twelve times as thick. He was on the phone and John saw the lump in his jacket pocket. He was carrying a gun. Moriarty's henchman. Sherlock called for the bill and John finished up his meal. Sherlock grabbed his hand again and oddly enough, it felt comforting. John smiled at his friend as he paid the bill and they hopped in a cab to head home.

…

"That man was one of Jim's many henchmen. He's supposed to be dead." Sherlock said pacing back and forth in front of the couch.

John furrowed his eyebrows trying to follow along. "But he was at the café"

"Yes, of course he was, but he was brought into Barts only three days ago. I saw his dead body. I used it to find out if a body will react to whipping if there is Vaseline before the swelling."

"And?"

"Of course it will. But he was identified; I did the DNA samples myself. I just don't understand how he is still alive."

"How do you know it wasn't an impersonator?"

"I checked, he had an odd shaped birthmark on his left arm and both the body and this man had that birth mark. And, no it wasn't a tattoo or makeup; you could tell by the way he poised his hand that it wasn't a new mark. It's been with him since birth. Hence the name 'birthmark.' And the one on the body was the same. A birthmark." Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and sat on the sofa in thought.

"Of course," John knew the faraway look that Sherlock got when he was going to his mind palace and so he let the man be. He got up to the kitchen to brew a pot of tea.

He was slightly shaken by the dead man alive thing. If Moriarty had found a way to bring people back to life… He laughed out loud. That was absolutely ridiculous.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket.

_Hey, It's Greg. Could you get Sherlock over here? There has been a death, we assume suicide, but this is the fifth one in the area and since Anderson is in charge, nothing has gotten done. Get back to me ASAP._

John glanced at his phone. He hated to bother Sherlock while he was thinking, but this seemed important. When he went to check on him, Sherlock had gotten up and was pacing again.

"Sherlock, sorry to bother you, but Lestrade needs you. There's been a series of suicides which he thought you might want to take a look at."

Sherlock's head snapped upwards and he grinned like a child on Christmas. "I do hope you'll join me John." Sherlock moved in close to John and he brought their hips together and leaned in, a whisper away from his lips.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world" John said, surprising Sherlock with a small kiss on the tip of his nose, before grabbing his coat off the rack and going down the stairs, chuckling to himself.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN:**

**This chapter was really difficult to write. I couldn't quite find my pace or come up with very good ideas. I guess it's unlucky chapter 13. **

**Please comment, I would really love any suggestions or feedback you have, even if it's very generic.**

* * *

Sherlock grabbed John's hand as they approached the crime scene where Donavan was standing behind the yellow tape, talking in hushed tones to Anderson, who had a stern look on his face. The two stood straight and stared as Sherlock and John approached, their mouths agape, taking it in.

John was still wearing the ridiculous clothing that Sherlock had dressed him in; he was still feeling uncomfortable. He gripped his fake fiancé's hand tighter and smiled widely at Sally, who had grabbed her walkie-talkie and asked Lestrade if Sherlock was allowed in. Lestrade yelled back at her.

"Come on in, creep." She said pointedly. Sherlock didn't smile, he just pat her on the head in an odd way, dragging John behind him. She gasped and walked over to Anderson and he sighed, shaking his head.

The two walked up the stairs, getting strange looks. Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear and John couldn't help but smile back. He was starting to enjoy being Sherlock's boyfriend. It was strangely satisfying.

When they entered the room with the body, Lestrade walked over to John and gave him a strangling, awkward hug. The two were buddies and went out for drinks once or twice a week. They had gotten together to watch the odd football game. They shared more than just Sherlock in common and so they had become good friends. Lestrade patted John on the back.

"Congratulations." He said, pulling away and beaming at them. Sherlock put a hand around John's waist and put a little kiss on top of his head.

"We're very happy. John didn't want to tell anyone for a few more weeks but the cat's out of the bag." Sherlock was already examining the body as he spoke, the wheels turning in his head. This wasn't a suicide.

"How does your family feel, John? They're probably overwhelmed with the preparations. If you need anything, just give me a call." Lestrade offered

Shoot. John had to tell his family. He had completely forgotten. Harry wouldn't mind, he guessed. If he said open bar, she'd be there. God, he hated that.

His parents had already been suspicious when he said he was living with Sherlock and when they had visited for Easter last year, they seemed fairly convinced that he and Sherlock were sleeping together. He would talk to Harry first.

Sherlock was on his phone and had already gotten a lead. He looked at John with wide eyes that were full of excitement. He started a string of explanations that were too complicated and fast for John to understand before he ran out of the bedroom door. John sighed, watching him go. He would never catch up and he was feeling rather tired. He turned, thanked Lestrade and started hobbling down the stairs and back to the main road to find a cab.

As he pushed open the door, Sherlock was standing there.

"Hurry up. We haven't got all day." He growled impatiently.

Sherlock had never waited for him before. John walked towards him and Sherlock linked his arm in his own, tussling his hair.

"You've passed lesson number two." He smiled "I have already talked to Molly, she is sending me a list of names as we speak."

"A list of names for?"

"The dead man. Sometimes I don't understand what goes on in your mind, John. You can't honestly be that slow."

The insult hurt, just enough to bring John out of his idiotic fantasy that him and Sherlock were _actually_ in love. Actually a couple. He realized in that moment that maybe Sherlock had never been in love with him at all. This was all a very sick game to him and John followed along like a little puppy, on a leash, with Sherlock on the other side. He felt faint and needed to go home and lie down.

"You can figure this out on your own. I'll be back at the apartment." John said, speeding up his walk.

Sherlock walked to the main road where he hailed a cab. He didn't understand what had happened. What he had done wrong? He loved John so much. He usually could tell when he was angry, or sad, but the John he had seen moments earlier had been a John he had never seen before and he couldn't place the context. He had been angry, and upset and hurt, but there was something else as well. He guessed that something had happened back inside the house. Maybe Lestrade had said that thing about telling his family and he had felt bad for forgetting about them.

Sherlock sometimes forgot that the lie they were telling wasn't real. That was good, he guessed and he wondered if John felt the same way. It would make it seem more convincing. He would have to convince Jim that they were a loving couple that had actually fallen for each other. That he wasn't their puppet master and that they had control. That they were winning.

...

He went to Barts and went about, starting an experiment. Just when he was getting focused, Molly knocked softly on the door. He sighed.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"I was just here to give you these." She handed him a grey folder and then turned to leave. Sherlock looked up from his work and rushed over to shake her hand.

"Thank you, Molly." He said. He was being genuine enough for Molly to accept the thanks, but she was taken aback by Sherlock's kindness. Sherlock whisked her into a hug. Molly looked surprised and turned bright red. He pulled away from her and hoped that it had made her day a little better. He needed her on his side.

"I'm sure you've heard by now that John and I are… engaged to be married. We have been trying to make a point of telling everyone in person since… someone went around telling everyone." He said

Molly looked slightly pained. "Yes," she said, "Jim told me. We dated, remember?"

A moment of realization blew over Sherlock and he laughed. "Yes that's right, you introduced me to him."

"Congratulations, again." Molly murmured before mumbling an excuse and leaving. Sherlock turned and walked back to his experiment.

After three hours, he was still at a loss. The results were always wrong. He left everything as it was and said goodbye to Molly before going to find a cab.

…

John had gone home and sat in his chair. He thought about Sherlock and about telling his parents and about leaving. He thought about leaving a lot. He knew he probably would never do it but he pondered the idea, picking up and going off to somewhere else. He couldn't though. He knew he would just come crawling back. He couldn't live without Sherlock.

His phone buzzed.

He picked it up.

_Hello darling, miss me?  
__JM_

Right, of course. John had been so caught up in his own mind; he had forgotten the reason that all this was happening in the first place.

_What do you want?  
__JW_

_Nothing, just wondering how you're coping.  
__You know, I was thinking that you and Sherlock could have a lovely spring wedding.  
__JM_

_Why are you doing this?  
__JW_

_I'm bored and I find you very interesting. Take it as a compliment.  
__JM_

_Why are you talking to me? What do you want?  
__JW_

_You are very delicious, you know.  
__JM_

Delicious? John was disgusted. He had never really found Jim intimidating. He had the opportunity, many times, to kill John, but he hadn't ever done it. Without John, Jim would be as bored as Sherlock would be.

_I was thinking, we should meet up and have dinner.  
__I know this lovely Italian place.  
__I'll pick you up at 7 tomorrow evening.  
Don't you dare stand me up.  
__JM_

John was shocked. So Jim _had_ been flirting with him. Jim had more layers to this horrifying plan of his than John thought. He was just beginning to see how complicated the whole adventure was turning out to be.

…

Sherlock walked slowly up the stairs of 221b. He stopped at the door, flowers in hand, and hoped that John had cheered up. When he opened it, John was sitting in his chair, staring out the window.

"It's late. I was worried" John said, getting up and taking the flowers. "Thank you, I'll get a vase"

Sherlock was confused at what was happening. John had been angry and now he seemed completely monotonous. "Are you alright, John?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

Sherlock scanned the room. Two empty coffee cups were sitting on the table, along with John's phone. He had gotten some bad news.

"John, I need you to tell me what happened." he said, trying to sound soothing. It came out as more of a command.

"Jim happened." John said without any explanation.

"I am afraid I need a few more details than that." Sherlock said.

"Really, the almighty Sherlock Holmes needs a few more details!" John said filling a vase with water and throwing the flowers into it.

"I don't understand?" Sherlock said, trying to bring himself up to speed. The carpet was wrinkled, John had been pacing. His phone had been tossed on the table, that meant he was talking. No. texting, someone who he didn't like. The way he was yelling at Sherlock said that he was angry with him. The puzzle peices didn't fit.

"Really? You? How could you not? Deduce the situation Sherlock!" John yelled.

"I can't" Sherlock said quietly

"Poor Sherlock can't figure it out." John said, slamming the vase onto the kitchen counter.

"Just tell me, please." Sherlock said, hurt.

"Fine. He asked me on a date." John said with just as much ferocity

"Are you going to go?" Sherlock asked.

"Do I have a choice? Wow Sherlock, are you really that _slow._" John snapped before realizing the damage his words had done. Sherlock wilted.

"I'm sorry if anything upset you this morning. You didn't come with me to Barts and I felt very lonely." he sounded like a child.

John walked over to him and pulled him into a close hug. "Thank you." He said putting a small kiss on his forehead. "Now I'm exhausted I'll see you in the morning. You'll have to help me get ready for my… date."

Sherlock nodded, watching John leave, aching for him to stay.

"John?" He said

"Yes?" John turned at the door and looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I really do love you," he said.

John's eyebrows furrowed before his face softened slightly "I know," he replied and walked up the stairs to his bedroom.

…

John couldn't sleep that night, all the things that had been going on. He lay in bed and thought about the outfit Sherlock had chosen for him and the small things Sherlock had done throughout the day. He thought about Jim and Sebastian and the party. He thought about how rude he had been. He thought about his feelings and Sherlock's feelings and everyone's feelings and by the end he just wished he hadn't had two cups of coffee.

At midnight, Sherlock crawled into the bed beside him, and it was only then, with Sherlock's breath blowing on the back of his neck, that he finally drifted off to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN:**

**Thank you to for the suggestions from everyone!**

**(Dancing Eyes :) )**

**Very helpful. Keep 'em coming!**

* * *

John woke up in the morning to find Sherlock still fast asleep, his knees curled into his chest and his head drooped down. He looked so peaceful, laying there, his lips silently muttering meaningless words. John quietly crept out of the bed and started to get changed. He tore off his pajamas seeing as it was getting a little stuffy in his bed at night and he was feeling choked in them. He stood in his boxers, rifling through his things. He needed to pick out something to wear for that evening, plus he had to work that morning. He absentmindedly scratched his stomach, as he looked at all the formal wear he had. Sweater, sweater vest, purple button down, tweed jacket his grandmother gave him last Christmas, black Armani suit, James Dean Jacket, favourite white sweater… Armani suit? John pulled it out of the closet, laying it down next to Sherlock's sleeping body. Jim. There was a note in the breast pocket.

_Dinner is on me, and where we're going, I can't have you dressed like an idiot.  
__JM_

Of course, another insult. John sighed wearily and picked up the suit, putting it up to his chest and examining the fit of it and the feel of the material underneath his fingers. He hung it up on the side of his closet so that he could easily find it for later. He had odd butterflies in his stomach. What did Jim actually want from him? He knew he wanted to make Sherlock jealous and rip him apart from the inside but John couldn't shake the feeling that there were a few more layers to this ruthless killer.

He thought about poor Sebastian and his involvement in this ridiculous plot. He always remembered Seb as the good guy. He was the guy you could trust with any secret but not trust around girlfriend. You could put your life in his hands but if you found him on the opposite side; he would tear out your heart both figuratively and literally. He had always been grungy and fairly violent, but he had been a good guy.

John thought about sitting around playing cards with Sebastian and the rest of the group of friends he had made in Afghanistan. He would watch, as Sebastian would steal pounds off the table without anyone even noticing. He could drink everyone under the table and then some. When everyone couldn't remember what had happened the night before Sebastian would just smirk and look at John, throwing his head back with a chuckle. He had been a very eager, bright young man. He wasn't well off and would pawn things for dinner, spending most nights on the streets, but he had a strong build, a good heart and was ruggedly handsome.

John had seen quite a few terrible accidents in his life, the majority being in Afghanistan, but he could never shake the image of Sebastian coming in, after being blown to bits in a roadside bombing. His sector had been passing through a small town on the outskirts of their army base when they ran into some problems; a bomb had been planted. They didn't know whether it had anything to do with them, but Sebastian had gotten his face slashed by flying debris. Two soldiers were lost and three random civilians as well. When Sebastian entered, he was barely living. His arm was badly broken and there was a third degree burn creeping down his chest but his face… John remembered unwrapping the layers of dirty cloth to survey the damage and having to leave the room to hurl. He had never seen anything as bad as Sebastian's face at that moment in time.

He had returned and stitched him up to the best of his abilities and prayed that Seb hadn't lost his vision. They would be transferring him to London in the morning for more extensive surgery and recovery. When Sebastian woke up, he had asked to see the damage, threatening John when he refused. John remembered the moment clearly; the first time he had seen the fearless man cry. Sebastian had been changed. He hadn't said a word and had refused any further treatment for the time before he was taken away. The last thing he had said to John was a soft thank you, and then John hadn't seen him ever again. Until none other than Jim Moriarty and his former patient abducted him that evening. It seemed so long ago.

"You're beautiful you know." Sherlock said, placing his chin on John's shoulder, pulling John out of his thoughts.

"So are you when you are sleeping." John retorted.

Sherlock let out a soft chuckle before nibbling John's ear and wrapping his arms around his bear chest. John couldn't help but smiling and leaning back into Sherlock's warm embrace.

"Lessons resume today. We'll begin this morning and continue after your date." Sherlock traced the line of John's scar that stood prominently on his shoulder

"I have to go to work," John said, furrowing his eyebrows.

Sherlock pulled away, examining the suit that Jim had left. "Interesting" he murmured touching the soft fabric.

"Work has already been taken care of." Sherlock said crossing to the door and leaning against the frame.

"Mycroft's name can do anything," He said, winking, before leaving to give John the privacy he needed.

John sighed and rubbed his head with the palm of his hands. He needed to mull things over and he needed a break from Sherlock and Jim and all of this, but he felt an odd tug of excitement at the thought of spending the day with Sherlock. He walked off to the bathroom for a shower, trying to predict what Sherlock had in store.

…

"This is ridiculous." John was sitting, his legs crossed at the knee, next to Sherlock on the couch. His hand was intertwined with the consulting detective's and they were staring at the wall opposite to them. The smiley face, drawn in yellow, seemed to be taunting him. "We have already held hands in public, we don't need to practice it."

"It's a gateway lesson." Sherlock simply said, lifting John to his feet and positioning him so that they were facing each other. "Lesson four: hugging." Sherlock said

John laughed and started to walk away, shaking his head. "That's enough, Sherlock. No more of this rubbish."

"Friends hug differently than couples do. There is less sexual tension and desire for one another. Unfortunately we haven't perfected this yet. These are the little things that people pick up on. You're not only convincing your friends and colleagues, John, you have to convince your family, those people that you have known all of your life. Who know everything about you. Every detail needs to be perfect." Sherlock explained pulling John into a friendly hug

"See, this isn't love, it's a nice display of companionship." He pulled John closer, pulling his pelvis into his own and playing with a piece of his hair as he leaned down into John and put his mouth at John's neck

"This is real hugging," He murmured quietly into John's ear and in that moment, John forgot everything about Jim and the plans and the dates and the lies and everything. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and felt his hair brush against his cheek.

"Why did you dress me in that ridiculous outfit yesterday?" John wondered out loud, wanting to know the answer.

Sherlock pulled away just enough to look John straight in the eye. "You needed the confidence, John. Sometimes humble may not be the healthiest approach."

He leaned back in and rested his head on John's shoulder. They stood for a moment before Sherlock pulled away, grinning. "See? A real hug is different."

John turned and ran a hand through his hair. "What's next?"

…

"John! My mouth is over here! That was my favourite shirt." Sherlock said, laughing, trying to wipe spaghetti sauce off with a napkin. They were feeding each other. It had started with John confessing that he enjoyed the film "Lady and the Tramp" and that he watched it when he was a kid. Sherlock had then made pasta and gave him a lesson on feeding each other food.

"That's payback for my sweater." John said, smiling.

"Let's move on. I'm bored," Sherlock said

"Of course you are"

…

"It's very simple, it's basically just swaying." Sherlock said, demonstrating to John by wrapping his arms around himself and sashaying his hips back and forth.

John laughed. "Sherlock, I _know_ how to slow dance. I just feel that this is extremely unnecessary."

Sherlock gave him a pleading look and pouted just slightly.

"No. This is ridiculous."

"John Watson, you have no choice but to slow dance with me." Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow, grabbing John's hand and placing the other one around his neck. John made no effort to get out of his grip. "Very good."

"Piss off" John said, upset for being treated like a child.

Sherlock grabbed John's waist, pulling him close.

"Now, we just sort of rock back and forth." Sherlock said, sounding as awkward as John felt.

John tried to relax and laid his head on Sherlock's chest and Sherlock, in turn, rested his chin on top of John's head. They danced in silence for a while. John felt safe and warm and happy; Sherlock's strong arms around him like a secure sort of home.

Sherlock slowly forgot about all the problems with the case. The dead bodies, Jim Moriarty, the suicides; they all became meaningless. He stayed in the moment, absorbing John's warmth into his own.

_Buzz. _

_Buzzz. _

Sherlock sighed and pulled away grabbing his phone from the kitchen table and checking it.

_I hope you won't be too lonely tonight, Sherlock.  
__JM_

Sherlock was suddenly angry. Jim knew that Sherlock was hopelessly in love. He knew that Sherlock was confused, lost and scrambling to unravel the web that Jim had so cleverly woven.

"We're losing, John. I can't… we're losing." He said, quietly.

John picked up the ferocity in Sherlock's voice. He turned off the music and walked over to him, looking him in the eye "We'll pick it up."

"No, you don't understand. We are _losing_." Sherlock said. He got up and started pacing. Not his usual pacing, a livid determined pace. It wasn't full of thought; he was trying to resist the urge to tear the room apart.

Sherlock grabbed his gun from the drawer, slamming it shut behind him. He shot the wall once and then again. And again. Then he started to yell a stream of nonsensical gibber gabber, continuing to shoot the wall repeatedly. He was becoming emphatic and maniacal. John was scared.

"Sherlock, stop it." John said. Sherlock continued, raising his volume.

"Stop. It. NOW!" John mustered up all of his voice. Sherlock was breathing heavily and had stopped shooting the wall. John ripped the gun from his hand, placing it down on the table, trying to stay calm. "What is wrong with you?"

Sherlock turned to him, grinning. "There is no game." He stated, as if it was obvious.

"Pardon?" John said, confused.

"There isn't a game, John. There were never any crazy tricks. He is _actually_ bringing people back to life."

"Ok, Sherlock, you need some time to sort yourself out… you need… I'm going to go get ready." John said, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't break anything while he was gone.

"No!" Sherlock yelled, picking up the gun and shooting the door. The bullet whizzed right past John's head.

John turned and looked at the detective with wide, frightened eyes. "Have you lost your mind?"

Sherlock put the gun down and crossed the room to where John was standing. "I have two ways to get out of this."

John stood there, completely dumbfounded. "What?"

"I apologize for my outburst. Will you forgive me? Yes. Good. Now, option one requires you to continue being my fiancé. I am hoping that you accept." Sherlock had a slightly crazed look in his eyes. John stood and stared at his roommate. Sherlock's hair was frazzled; there were huge bags under his eyes and he could see the edge of a nicotine patch peeking out from underneath his sleeve. He knew it wasn't the only one.

"Listen, you need to compose yourself and think about what you just did." John stated, looking Sherlock in the eyes. He turned to go.

"John, I'm sorry." Sherlock muttered, "Please will you continue to be my fiancé and we can go on with lessons?"

"As long as you don't try to kill me." John said, feeling manipulated.

"Thank god, the second option was absolutely terrible." Sherlock said.

"Am I allowed to know any of the plans?" John asked

"Of course not" Sherlock said, exasperated

"Of course not" John repeated to himself. He crossed over to the kitchen table and sat down, trying to keep a cool head. He was shaken and nervous and hoped that the evening wouldn't continue to be so awful.

…

The rest of the day was filled with many different activities, all of which John sat through silently, letting Sherlock take the wheel. John was tired and uninterested. They made their back-story. Sherlock had strategically planned everything from how they became boyfriends to how many kids they wanted. Little moments and big moments. The proposal was fairly simple: Sherlock had proposed in their apartment, two weeks before the party. He had bought a bouquet of red roses and John had cried.

"Now, the first time we kissed was - " Sherlock started

"No, I draw the line here." John said, beginning to get anxious. It was six thirty in the evening. He needed to get ready and he felt queasy and nervous.

"John, this is all necessary for… Are you alright? I did apologize for my - "

"Yes, of course." John interrupted "I'm just… I'm fine. You were saying?"

"The first time we kissed. It was raining. You were cold and upset and tired and you had forgotten a jacket. I lent you mine and we walked back to the apartment hand in hand. You reached for the handle at the same time I did and when you did, I leaned in and took your face in mine. Then we kissed. Romantic. Simple. Great. Excellent. Done. Moving on." Sherlock said

"Wait. Why do _you_ kiss _me_? Why are _you_ the superior? I want people to think I have the backbone. I'm the _man_ of the house. You make me seem so weak." John whined. It was an immature thing to argue about, he knew, but he was starting to lose his patience and sanity as he waited for the inevitable evening that he was going to have with Jim.

"John, seriously, you having the upper-hand in the relationship is absolutely preposterous. I mean, look at you."

John was hurt. He hadn't expected the argument to be so important, but he had been feeling fragile all day and he had dealt with Sherlock already, he couldn't take the insult.

He pushed away from the kitchen table, tucked in his chair and walked up the stairs to his room, mumbling an excuse as he went.

Sherlock watched him go, worrying about him. He pulled out his phone.

_**To: Jim Moriarty  
**__**From: Sherlock Holmes  
**__**Sent: Today, 6:40pm**_

_Don't you dare hurt him.  
__SH_


	15. Chapter 15

**AN:**

**A lovely long chapter for all of you lovely people! :)**

* * *

John checked his watch. 6:59pm. He had been waiting outside for three and a half minutes. He wasn't in a rush, but he couldn't stand another minute in the house with Sherlock. No matter how charming the man was; he could still be hardhearted and hurtful to those around him.

John watched as a classy, red Porsche pulled up. The hood was down and none other than the notorious Jim Moriarty was sitting at the wheel. He reached across and swung open the door for his date. John walked over, sitting down in the seat next to him, as he checked himself in the rearview mirror.

"Let's go." John said, anxious to get it all over with.

"My my, what an eager beaver." Jim replied, wiping a bit of toothpaste from the corner of John's mouth. He looked into his eyes. "May I add that you look absolutely dashing this evening?"

John cleared his throat as Jim pulled away from the curb and took them to their destination.

…

"We'll have a bottle of champagne and a couple of appetizers. Whatever the chef wants to bring me. Tell him I want something off of the menu. I'm sure I _won't_ be disappointed." Jim raised an eyebrow but was eerily calm as the waiter hobbled off, terrified, to go tell the head of the kitchen.

The restaurant Jim had chosen was very posh. The glass chandeliers hung off of the high ceilings. The light was dim; the food was in small, delicate, servings and the waiters referred to the guests as sir, or madam. Beautiful embroidered white tablecloths covered the round tables and the gold plated cutlery was wrapped in matching white napkins.

John listened to the quiet chatter of the surrounding crowd. The couple to their right was a massive gentleman, sitting with a tight suit and burly arms and his wife, who was a small brunette woman wearing bright red lipstick and a matching dress. To their left, two men with bowler hats and briefcases sat, eating their food and quietly discussing something of great urgency. Behind Jim, there was an older woman sitting across from a boy of around seven years old. His hair had been combed back and John couldn't help but overhear the adjustments the woman was shouting at him.

"Sit up straight Laurence. Elbows off the table."

John sighed, as the waiter approached with a plate of assorted cheeses and olives. A bowl of soup was placed in front of John as well as a breadbasket for the table. The cooler for the champagne was wheeled up next to them and John watched Jim pop the cork off in one fluid motion. He poured some in two tall, fluted champagne glasses and rested one down beside John's plate.

"Here's to a happy couple," He said, winking.

John didn't know what to say. He downed the entire glass in a gulp, feeling it go straight to his head. He picked up his spoon and started to indulge in the soup. He felt Jim grab his other hand and before he could pull away, Jim tightened his grip and pulled John in very close to him.

"You take whatever I give you this evening. Don't ruin it." He whispered aggressively in John's ear.

John gritted his teeth as Jim slowly backed off, letting go of his hand. The woman to their right looked both men up and down and turned away in disgust, whispering to her husband who rolled his eyes. John furrowed his eyebrows and ran a hand through his hair. Jim tested him by grabbing his hand for a second time. He put John's fingers up to his mouth and kissed them, one by one. John flinched and tried not to let his repulsion show. He needed to keep calm for Sherlock, not that Sherlock deserved it. Jim was now playing with the engagement ring around John's finger. He took it off and examined it before reaching across the table to John, putting it inside John's breast pocket.

"You won't be needing that tonight, darling." Jim said. John had lost all hope in gaining power back, and he was panicking. He fought the urge to go inside his thoughts. He grabbed Jim's face in both of his hands and kissed him forcefully, pushing his tongue inside the murderous man's lips. He moved his hands to the back of Jim's head and intertwined them in his hair. Jim was caught by surprise. His eyes widened and he pulled away, breathing heavily. John felt as surprised as Jim looked. He glanced at the woman to his right, whose mouth was now open, gaping at them. The two men in bowler hats had stopped talking and were staring and the old woman was whispering rapidly to her grandson who was pointing at them with wide eyes. Jim cleared his throat, obviously thrown off.

"I need to use the washroom," He articulated, pushing away from the table and straightening his suit as he left. John finished off his soup and checked his phone, feeling stunned but satisfied. He had just gained the upper hand, the power in this game. He reflected back to the argument that he and Sherlock had before he had left and sighed. He felt angry. Angry and upset and confused. He just wanted to sleep.

…

Sherlock sat, perched on the armchair, picking his violin and watching the fire. He had been wondering about John; they had only been gone an hour but Sherlock couldn't help but worry. John had left in a huff and Sherlock was confused to why he had. Had he done anything or said anything wrong? John was just stressed Sherlock concluded and decided to go out and get milk, just to make up for whatever it was that he had or had not done. He put on his coat and searched for his scarf finding it on the table beside his phone. He locked the door as he left and hoped that John was feeling better than he did.

…

Jim clutched the edge of the bathroom sink and looked at himself in the mirror. John was different. Angrier. More on edge. Jim liked it. He pushed his hair back, thinking about Sebastian for only a moment. Sebastian had been tough, yes, but he was growing softer and mushier. He couldn't take mushy. Jim remembered how his heart leapt at John's touch. It wasn't right. Jim didn't have emotions. His inside was hollow and empty and cold. He tried to bring that empty feeling back, but it was gone. All he had was a voracious need for John. He shook his head and splashed his face with cold water. It wasn't working. John was supposed to be a pawn that he would use to get Sherlock, the big plan, ending with a bang. His breathing quickened and he slapped himself back into reality. He would turn into Sherlock for the evening. No emotions on the outside. It would be out of character, but he couldn't risk letting John see behind the façade. It wouldn't work. He would lose.

The bathroom door squeaked as he pushed it open, leaving back into the restaurant, to face John.

…

Sebastian had done the shopping for the third time that week. He knew that Jim hadn't put food in the apartment. He thought about the night of the party with a shiver, reminding himself of the bruises that still hadn't healed. He wondered about his feelings for Jim and questioned the reality of them. He had never felt as strongly for someone as he did for him, but since the party, he had started to re-think it all. Sherlock had been on his mind for quite some time as well, for a few different reasons. If he tore him down, he could earn Jim's respect back, but there was a certain feeling that Sebastian had towards the consulting detective that made him jittery and excited.

He turned into the frozen foods isle to pick up a carton of milk and a couple of pizzas. As he was browsing the different cheeses, he saw a familiar face, sniffing a carton of eggnog.

"Sherlock Holmes." He said, putting out his hand, and smiling. "I was just thinking about you." Sherlock looked over but didn't smile, ignoring the hand.

"Sebastian." He said, returning the carton to its place and picking up the one next to it.

Sebastian felt an insatiable need to impress the tall man and he ran his fingers through his hair before speaking. "How are you?"

"Why are you talking to me?" Sherlock responded walking past him to the eggs, where he knocked softly on one of the packages before doing the same to the one next to it.

Sebastian furrowed his eyebrows, confused by the question "I'm sorry?"

"Jim obviously didn't want you talking to either me or John after you almost let things slip at the party. Also, you are here of your own accord. This is a very risky situation considering I am his sworn enemy. You obviously aren't talking to me out of a threat, or out of politeness. So, why _are_ you talking to me?" Sherlock said. Turning to Sebastian who seemed taken aback.

"My apologies, I won't do it again." Sebastian turned back to his shopping, disappointed.

"Good" Sherlock said, and smiled at Sebastian, who returned the smile, heart thumping in his chest.

Before continuing, Sherlock thought about how simple it would be to get Sebastian to like him. With an inside view, so personal to Jim, he could figure out how that body had come back to life.

"Would you like some tea?"

…

When Jim returned to the table, John was wiping the last bits of his soup off of his plate with a piece of bread. Jim sat back down, placing a napkin on his lap. He didn't say anything, sipping his champagne and starting his soup as well. A waiter came up and snatched John's empty plate, checking in on them and leaving in a cloud of cologne and nervous sweat. John took in Jim's poise. He was so small, yet so powerful. The way his muscles tensed and the way he moved was so grand and extravagant. His eyes, giving a cold stare, even when he was smiling. Jim looked up and caught John staring at him. He raised his eyebrows but continued to eat. John didn't think too much of it and took another sip of champagne.

"John? Is that you?" He heard from behind him. He turned slowly, only to see Greg enter, a lovely, tall woman on his arm. 'Shit,' John thought, turning to face Jim. The corners of Jim's mouth turned upwards. John ignored him, standing and shaking Greg's hand. Greg introduced the woman as Mary Morstan. She shook John's hand and looked him up and down. She had pale skin and blonde hair. She wouldn't stop making doe eyes at John, much to Greg's disappointment.

"Greg, you know Jim Moriarty. Worked at Bart's, an ex-boyfriend of Molly's. He was at the party."

"Of course. Jim. Nice to see you again." He said

"Would you like to join us?" John asked, hoping for some sort of break from his horrid date.

"Sure, is that alright?" Greg asked Mary, who nodded absentmindedly, staring, wide-eyed at John who pulled her up a chair. They sat down and John smiled. Jim gestured for a waiter.

They made small talk for a few minutes before John felt something squeeze the inside of his lower thigh. Shocked, he looked at Mary, who was in a deep conversation with Greg about the school she taught at. Then John glanced over at Jim, who was adding in the occasional word. They made eye contact and Jim smirked. John's eyes grew wide. Then there was another poke, a little higher up on the inside of his thigh. The power seemed to be shifting back to Jim.

"So John, have you decided on a day for the wedding?" Greg said, trying to get Mary to lose interest in John and move on.

"Um… Not quite yet" John said through gritted teeth. Jim continued to inch higher and higher up John's leg.

"I heard that Sherlock wanted a spring wedding." Greg said and furrowed his eyebrows.

John bit the inside of his lip to keep from saying anything as Jim moved his foot up and down John's upper thigh.

"Yes, I believe so." he murmured

Greg noticed that John wasn't wearing his ring and realized what was happening. Jim and John alone, on a date? "John, may I speak to you for a minute. Alone?"

John nodded, relieved, and excused himself, walking briskly away with Greg. When they were alone, Greg turned on John with huge ferocity.

"Don't you _dare_ do this to Sherlock. I dislike him as much as the next guy, but this is just wrong. If you don't come clean and tell him, I will." Greg whispered.

"It's not what you think it is," John said, trying to formulate an excuse.

"I saw the way Jim was looking at you, John. You may enjoy having a thing. Fun and games. But in the end someone will end up getting hurt and we both know who that someone is. I don't want a heartbroken sociopath on the loose. I don't even know if we have a department for that sort of thing."

John scrambled to find something, anything that made the situation seem logical. "Sherlock knows. Jim and I _aren't_ together." he mustered up, feebly.

"That doesn't make any sense! " Greg raised his eyebrows, exasperated. "You're not even wearing the ring John!"

John pulled it out of his pocket and put it back on, trying not to worry about whatever Jim would think. "I took it off and put it in my pocket so I wouldn't forget it while I took a bath. I guess I just forgot to put it back on. Jim and I are planning the bachelor party. I promise there is nothing going on between us. I love Sherlock." John said, and as he said it, he wondered if it were true.

He gave Greg a pleading look, hoping that he would let it drop. "Listen, would I really do that to him? I just… came out to… everyone, Greg. I don't think I would be prancing around with handfuls of other… people.

Greg was still suspicious, but he just nodded, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve and walking past him. John sighed and followed after him, wondering how in god's name he was going to clean up the mess of lies after it was all over.

…

Sherlock finished his shopping with Sebastian, indulging in another bouquet of red roses, for John. Sherlock walked back to 221b with Sebastian at his side. His mind was racing and he was bored, but he restrained from saying anything. He needed Sebastian on his side and it was proving to be a fairly simple task. Sebastian told him about his family and how he met John. About his life before he met Jim, his life before the army and his life before he moved out of his parents house. Sherlock classified the important information into his mind palace and deleted the rest, inviting Sebastian upstairs and putting the kettle on.

…

John was lost in thought as Mary tried to sweet talk him. Greg had made it clear to her that he was engaged but she couldn't stop talking to him. Greg made it clear to her that he was engaged to Sherlock, a man. She still wouldn't stop giggling uncontrollably when John said something clever. John found her rather adorable. She had a pretty smile and nice eyes. He continued to talk to her throughout the evening, but backed off when Greg gave him a look. Jim spent the night trying to gain back John's attention and in the end, he succeeded. Jim had paid for the bill and left the table to Greg and Mary. Greg hadn't ended up bringing Mary home that night, she had however, asked about John for the rest of the evening.

Jim had got the car brought around by one of the busboys, and tipped him as John got into the car. John sighed, exhausted, leaning his head back on the leather seat, taking in the clean scent. Jim hopped in next to him, still as oddly quiet as he had been all evening. John thought about Sherlock and going home. He really didn't want to go; he didn't want to spend the evening with Jim either. He just wanted to go far away and not have to face either of them anymore. He was tired of being stretched thin between the both of them. Jim pulled up in front of 221b. He kissed John's cheek and winked, getting out and opening the door for him. John stepped out and Jim pulled him into an extremely close hug. A real hug, John thought, except that it felt very different than it did with Sherlock. Then Jim leaned in and kissed John, lingering. John stayed stiff and didn't move, feeling the power shift and wanting to go inside and sleep.

"Don't miss me too much tonight" Jim said with a smirk.

John unlocked the door and sauntered up the stairs feeling defeated and tired.

…

Sherlock and Sebastian were sitting in 221b talking about nothing in particular. Sherlock was sitting opposite Seb, who had inched himself closer and closer to the consulting detective. His leg was stuck in between both of Sherlock's. He was a breath away from Sherlock now, and he looked into his eyes. Sherlock didn't quite know what was happening until Sebastian's lips were on his, their tastes mingling. Sebastian's hands were on the back of Sherlock's head in a relentless grip as John walked in.

"What the bloody hell?" John whispered.

Sherlock sprung to his feet "I can explain."

"Have fun with that." John said, turning around and walking out of the apartment.

"John, wait." Sherlock commanded.

"No, Sherlock. I draw the line here. The end. No more. You need some time to think about what you're doing and who you're seeing and all of the people who you're playing with, because I can't take this anymore." John kept walking down the street. Sebastian slowly walked out, smiling, groceries in hand.

"I had a lovely time," He said as he strolled down the street, whistling, wondering if Jim would be pleased and wondering if his feelings for Sherlock were ever actually real or if it was Jim all along.

Sherlock ran after John but found it useless. He went back inside but couldn't sit still. He walked around the city for an hour, collecting his thoughts. He hadn't gained any useful information from Sebastian. He was being toyed with. When he was ready, he sat on a park bench and went to his mind palace, trying to figure out what it was that he was going to do.

Eventually he went to Bart's. He needed to conduct a few experiments anyway.

…

He walked up the steps to 221b to find that it was fairly quiet. He stopped for a moment, to listen. He could hear a faint tapping of a keyboard. John was alive and home.

"Hello?" He called out, just to double check.

John looked up from his laptop and sighed, putting it away and getting up to start the kettle. Sherlock walked through the door, a bag of evidence in his hand. John didn't look up from what he was doing.

"I missed you. My evening was terrible." Sherlock said, trying to keep his cool.

"Good" John responded quietly. Sherlock scanned the room but nothing seemed out of place.

"Sebastian forced himself on me. It had nothing to do with you. I promise." He walked over to John and wiped a small bit of dirt from his cheek. John looked up at him and furrowed his eyebrows.

"Listen Sherlock, I can stand this anymore. I can't stand… you, anymore. I have packed my things. I am moving somewhere far away and you aren't going to come with me. You aren't going to follow me and we aren't going to stay in contact because this is too much. Between you and… Jim… you are ripping me apart, piece by piece and I don't know why and I can't make it stop, and I really thought that I had… I mean I was convinced that I… " He looked into Sherlock's pleading eyes and he knew what he wanted. He knew that Sherlock loved him.

"_Gender is a subjective barrier John. It's like attractiveness or beauty. Don't think for a second that just because you are straight, you can't be attracted to another man. People miss the love of their lives for their ignorance"_

The words bounced around in his head as he leaned into Sherlock, he realized that he had been waiting so long for this moment. His kiss with Jim had been meaningless; all the women before Sherlock were worthless. He got up on his toes, taking in Sherlock's scent and his warmth. He put two hands on the back of Sherlock's neck, leaning in, noses touching.

Sherlock put a hand to John's lips "No." he commanded

"What?" John was taken aback.

"We can't… I can't… No." Sherlock said, fear creeping into his voice. Suddenly he hysterically pushed back, away from the table and tore out of the room. He couldn't do this to John. To himself. He would be overwhelming and John would leave. He said he would. It would be too much for him and Sherlock would never see him again. He couldn't stand hurting John, and John was never going to be able to hurt him because he wouldn't let him. He slammed the door and walked out onto the street, stopping. He had wanted it so badly; John was his for the taking. He had fallen in love and so had John. They could have had everything that Sherlock had ever wanted. He felt a warm tear roll down his cheek and wiped it away, wondering why it was there to begin with.

John stood in the empty flat, sure of his feelings, wishing that he could leave. Wishing that he hadn't ever been introduced to him; hadn't ever agreed to move in with him; hadn't ever met him and hadn't ever fallen in love with the great Sherlock Holmes.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN:**

**Thank you for all the lovely comments :)**

** As usual, I love to hear your thoughts and ideas.**

* * *

Sherlock walked up the steps of 221b Baker Street in a daze. He walked through the kitchen before realizing that he wasn't alone. He stopped and took a deep breath through his nose, his heart pounding. Jim Moriarty.

"Well, well. Home so late Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned to find Jim sitting in the armchair and he realized John was tied in the other one. Odd, he didn't notice him before. He took a step toward him but found himself held back by two arms. Sebastian.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock said, struggling to get out of the strong man's grip.

"I'm not sure Sherlock, why _am_ I doing it? Why doesn't John tell you?" Jim crossed to where John was sitting. Calm and collected. Jim ran a finger down his face. "John, you can speak, darling."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry" John said, looking up at him, then he got up, out of his bonds and put a hand on Jim's face, leaning in and kissing him, passionately. "I loved Jim all along. You were just a pawn. I'm on his side. I never was even yours to begin with, even since the first day we met."

Sherlock was enraged and pulled a gun from his back pocket. He shot Jim. Once, twice, three times.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John screamed.

Sherlock turned on his roommate and pulled the trigger, shooting him through the head. Blood poured from John's wound as he fell to the ground gasping. His ragged breathing turned to horrendous gurgling, which slowly stopped. Sherlock had killed John.

…

Sherlock got up in a fit of panic, screaming and clutching his sheets. He took deep breaths and tried to rationalize the situation. Just another dream. No one to blame but his subconscious. It was early in the morning and light was just peaking in through the window as the sun rose. He tiptoed into the kitchen and put the kettle on, staring into space, thinking about everything. He went through his options yet again, to figure out Jim's trick to bringing people back to life. Reduced heart rate could work, but it wouldn't explain the dead body in the morgue. Identical twins were another theory, but once again, that seemed irrational and stupid. They wouldn't have identical DNA. Cloning seemed likely, but there wasn't a technology that was advanced enough to speed up the process of cloning and create a body of the same age as that man. He would have had to been born at roughly the same time as the clone. Sherlock sighed. He needed to go to his mind palace. He sat down on the couch and closed his eyes, wondering wear to start.

_Life expectancy in UK in 2011 was 78.1 years old. That man was in his late 30s at the most. Didn't die of old age since the death could have been prevented. The cause of death was suicide; he had taken a poison of some sort. Asphyxiation. Poison. Coming back to life after taking a poison. Poison. Cyanide. Botulinum. Anthrax. Sarin. Strychnine - symptoms: Neck and head muscle spasms. Leads to Asphyxiation. Antidotes: None. He was dead and was revived. With no antidote: Not likely. Death. Shakespeare. Macbeth. Hamlet. Romeo and Juliet… Romeo and Juliet? Back to life… Juliet faked her death, came back to life. Romeo and Juliet. Fake poison._

Sherlock smiled, pleased with himself. How to lower the heart rate to nothing and then start it again would be impossible, but at least it was something. John ambled down the stairs and into the kitchen. The kettle was screaming. John turned it off and poured himself a cup.

"You can't tell me that you didn't notice the kettle had gone. I did from all the way upstairs, it woke me up. It has been four minutes. Please be more considerate, Sherlock." John said, sitting down opposite him on the couch. He looked at Sherlock's notes. There were different poisons and their symptoms, pictures of the body and pictures of the live man.

"Find anything?" John asked, his heart wasn't in it, but he needed to get his mind off of all of the drama that had been going on in the apartment.

"Romeo and Juliet." is all Sherlock said. John furrowed his eyebrows but didn't say anything. He thought it over.

"She faked her own death then came back to life." Sherlock said, putting milk and sugar in his cup and stirring.

"So, you think that Jim has formulated some sort of potion like that?" John asked.

"Precisely." Sherlock responded, crossing the room to examine the photographs. "I just want to know _how _he's doing it_._"

"You'll figure it out." John said, getting up to grab a few biscuits.

The silence that followed was a long and painful one, as John tried to figure out how to approach what had happened the night before, and Sherlock tried to find a way to apologize. In the end, neither said anything.

There was a soft knock at the door as Mrs. Hudson entered, puttering about and cleaning up all the garbage. John smiled and thanked her.

"I am off to the grocery store, do you boys need anything?" She asked.

"No, I went shopping yesterday." Sherlock said and cocked his head towards the fridge.

John opened it to find a variety of fruits and vegetables as well as some frozen dinner and yoghurt. There were two cartons of milk. He smiled and looked over at Sherlock. He was always full of surprises.

"Thank you, Sherlock." John said warmly. Sherlock detected the happiness in John's voice and was relieved, just a little. Maybe John wasn't as upset as he had thought.

"You're welcome. Now, I'm off to Bart's if you would care to join me." He said.

John's phone buzzed on the table. He sighed, picking it up.

_There is a car waiting for you outside. Get in._

_MH_

Right. Mycroft. This is _exactly_ what John needed. He ran his fingers through his hair.

"It's your brother. He has a car waiting for me outside." He informed Sherlock.

"Tell him to piss off." Sherlock replied, piling all of his papers into a messy heap and shoving them in a folder.

"I'll just meet you later, at Barts. Keep your phone on." John grabbed his coat from the hook and left. His chest hurt and he yearned for the times before all of this engagement business had all started. If Sherlock just weren't so ignorant to people's feelings all the time, then maybe… John caught himself in his hole of self-pity and sat up straight. It wasn't Sherlock's fault. John had never actually confessed his feelings to Sherlock. It was his own fault. If he had told Sherlock earlier then Sherlock would have thought twice about kissing Sebastian. And besides, who was the one snogging Jim all of last night?

Sure enough, there was a black car with shaded windows waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. A man dressed nicely in a dark suit opened the door for him and John slipped inside.

…

The car stopped in an abandoned theme park. The wooden rollercoasters creaked and moaned in the wind. The old park games were dusty and unused and there was a boarded up "Tunnel o' Love" near the entrance. Mycroft Holmes was leaning on a bench, umbrella in hand.

"Hello John. Nice day isn't it?" He said, crossing to where John was standing.

"Yes indeed." John replied

"And how are you?" Mycroft inquired

"I've been better" John said, furrowing his eyebrows, suspiciously.

"I see." Mycroft checked his watch. "Well, I only have three minutes. I'm going to talk and you're going to listen. You may ask questions after I finish speaking."

John opened his mouth to protest but Mycroft cut him off "I have become aware of your relationship with one Jim Moriarty. You and him were on a date last night, I was suspicious. Reminding myself of your ridiculous loyalty to my brother, I decided to do some of my own snooping around. It has come to my attention that you and my brother have been put under some sort of threat. I thought that it was very skeptical, so I did some more research and found out that you and Jim have been playing power games for quite some time now, and I would like to know how I may be of assistance."

Mycroft smiled and John had a moment of relief and thankfulness for someone that could help him. Then he remembered that the man they were dealing with was Jim. "Listen, Mycroft, I don't think there is anything you can do. Jim obviously wants you to know about his plan, since you know about it. If he didn't want you to know what was happening, you would have no idea. He's toying with you too. Just keep tight security on yourself and the government and leave Sherlock and I to snoop about. Your brother can handle this." And with that, John hobbled off to hail a cab to Barts.

…

When John arrived, Sherlock was in a heated discussion with Molly.

"We can't tell him, just keep it between you and I and then when I need it I'll just ask, alright. I trust you."

"But he's your fiancé!"

"Yes, I know, but he'll be safer if he doesn't know. I need him to be safe."

John cleared his throat and both people sat up straight. "Know about what, exactly?" He asked apprehensively.

"Nothing." Sherlock said, getting up and crossing over to John, kissing him on the cheek. John winced at the touch.

"Nothing. Alright. That's fine. Any advancements?" He asked, trying to contain himself. Sherlock shook his head.

"Right. Good." John said and sat down on a stool. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes as Molly snuck out of the room quietly, not wanting to be caught in the middle of anything.

"Don't be mad." Sherlock said, putting a hand on John's shoulders.

John shrugged out of the detective's embrace and stood, knocking the stool over in the process.

"Don't. Be. Mad?" John said, furious. He wanted to tell him that he had been flirting with him since that night after the party. That Sherlock had been pulling his heartstrings since the very beginning and that he had finally realized that he was in love with him. That he just wanted him, right here, in Barts, on the examination table. That he wanted to be closer to the brilliant man standing in front of him. That he wished it had all turned out different. But instead, he took a deep breath "I'm not mad."

Sherlock's face softened, unnoticeable to anyone but John. "Thank you." He said, figuring out a way to fix it. He couldn't hurt John. He knew the inevitable was coming and if he and John were together. He didn't think that he could bear to leave him.

…

John sat in bed that night, thinking about what the day had demanded of him. He had taken the afternoon shift at work and had been doing mundane check ups with patients. The most interesting part of the day was when a woman had come in with a terrible migraine and he had got to subscribe her some Tylenol 3. He had been grateful for the break. He realized that Jim hadn't bothered him all day either. He thought it was odd that Jim decided to lay low for the day. Maybe he was busy dealing with Mycroft. Or he was adding a new layer to his plan.

…

Sherlock couldn't sleep that night. He kept thinking about the dream he had and about the man sleeping upstairs from him. He had a moment of doubt. Would kissing him have been better for the both of them? No, it wouldn't. He couldn't hurt John. He could foresee what would happen. Jim's plan was so much bigger than John could possibly imagine, and it would end, the two of them on the roof of Barts. Sherlock knew. He had done his research. John was spectacularly ignorant to the situation. Sherlock needed it to stay that way. It would pay off in the end. Much less heartbreak for the both of them. Sherlock had seen four renditions of Romeo and Juliet and every single time, Juliet would wake up from her fake death and find Romeo dead. Dying. Gone. Sherlock couldn't let that happen to John. John was his Romeo.

…

At midnight that night, Sherlock climbed the stairs and wriggled his way into John's bed. He watched John's chest rise and fall for a while.

"I love you, John," He whispered, waiting for the day when he could say it for real. When it could be returned. When they could live happily ever after.


	17. Chapter 17

**AN:**

**The usual is appreciated ! :)**

* * *

John woke up to find the bed empty. He vaguely remembered Sherlock joining him the night before, but he wasn't certain. He stood up and crossed the room to his dresser, pulling on a shirt and a pair of jeans. It was oddly cold in the apartment and John pulled on a white wool jumper as well. He thumped down the stairs, yawning and stretching his arms, putting on the kettle and checking his phone.

**1 new text message**

_At Barts. Come if convenient.  
__SH_

John rolled his eyes. He had to work. The kettle rang and he poured himself a cup for the road. He pulled on his coat and grabbed his keys, before leaving the house.

The day was oddly regular. The sun was covered by a few grayish looking clouds. No snow yet, that winter, but John never really liked snow anyway. He took a sip of the tea, feeling it warm his stomach. He really didn't care much for the day ahead. He would have loved to stay in his warm bed, clearing his mind and sleeping. He needed a break from everything. The drama, the feelings, the idiotic, unrealistic, supernatural things that were happening to him. Those things didn't happen in real life. He clocked in at the clinic, saying hi to Sarah and closed the door to his office. He told the receptionist to start sending people in and waited, willing the day to be mundane. Just for once.

…

Sherlock started to perfect the antidote that he had discovered. The antidote to any poison. The formula was perfect in every way. He would have to mix it with the poison of his choice and then in a few days, the person who took it would wake up, unharmed. Jim had been very sneaky about it, only using bodies that would be donated to science. Didn't like to get his hands dirty with digging up graves and such. Sherlock had tested the potion on mice and all of them were fine. Alive. He had figured out the poison. He thought it would have been much more difficult. Luckily, Molly had been so helpful. He'd have to repay her somehow.

There was only one piece of the puzzle that he still needed. The _how._ How was Jim disguising the poison? There had been multiple "suicides" in the area. Sherlock had examined two of the bodies, and he already knew that Jim had something to do with them. They had both taken the same poison. He hadn't been allowed to search their houses; he couldn't find the common object. If he could just figure it what it was and get some, he could find out if his antidote was the same. He could beat Jim and gain the upper hand.

He thought of John.

He pushed it away. He had promised himself that the day would be work-related only. He needed the break from all the sentimental things that had been occupying 221b.

_Buzz_

_Buzzzzz._

Sherlock picked up his phone.

"_All the world's a stage_

_And all the men and women merely players"_

_2.7.139_

_JM_

A clue? Sherlock re-read the passage. Perhaps a clue, but more likely a warning. His heart jumped. John.

_John, are you alright?_

_SH_

The seconds ticked as Sherlock waited for a response.

…

John was in the middle of examining the ears of a small, six year-old girl, who wouldn't stop squirming. She had odd bubbles around her eardrums, which were fairly common in children her age. He reached in to try and pop one with the examination lens. She screamed. He apologized and wrote a prescription to some sort of decongestant as his phone buzzed. As the girl and her mother left, John asked in the next patient ignoring his phone which buzzed for a second and then a third time. No one texted him more than once, ever, with the exception of four people: Sherlock, Jim, and occasionally Mycroft, who preferred to talk. He didn't want to converse with any of them. He turned his phone off, and submersed himself in the line of patients waiting for him in the queue outside.

…

Sherlock was worried. He had texted John exactly 8 times with no response. He got up and started to pace. Could it be Jim? John would be working at the clinic. He would have to check on him. What if Jim had beaten him to it and John was already gone. Sherlock pushed the thought out of his head as he ran out onto the street to hail a cab.

…

John stuck a stethoscope to the chest of an elderly woman with a history of heart failure in her family. He listened to the soft thumping of her heart. His intercom buzzed as he told the woman that she was doing fine and that she should eat more fiber. The intercom rang and John answered it without delay.

"Dr. Watson, we have a frantic patient wanting to see you, should I send him in? He is causing a ruckus in the line and I think you should take a look at him. He's complaining of an awful stomachache and he's seen lumps in his extremities. You make the diagnosis. He hasn't been to the clinic before."

John was intrigued. Tapeworms?

"Send him in."

John shuffled his papers and opened a new file on his computer. He typed in the symptoms as the door flew open, banging against the side wall.

Sherlock waltzed in, in a frenzied panic. He looked at John and stopped dead in his tracks. John sighed and rolled his eyes, closing the computer and turning to the detective.

"Sherlock, please, not while I'm working." He said, standing and turning to face him. "There are people who are actually sick waiting in the queue outside, if you want to see me, wait until after my shift ends, don't cause trouble and pretend to have tapeworms"

"Helminths" Sherlock retorted "And I have every right to check on you. You are mine."

"I'm not anyone's, especially not yours. Now, if you could mosey on down the street, I can meet you in a couple of hours for dinner."

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock said "And I was… worried"

John stared at Sherlock with a look of disbelief. "Worried?"

"Yes, I got this text from Jim and… I didn't know… I just…" The talkative man was at a loss for words.

John crossed the room and tentatively put a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. He didn't know why, but he felt like Sherlock was a lost child, and all his anger for the tall man evaporated. Sherlock was as lost as John was. "Thank you. Meet me at home in two hours, alright? We'll go for dinner or something."

Sherlock tensed and crossed to leave. "Sorry." He said quietly, and John knew that it wasn't only for the commotion he had caused.

He sighed, "It's alright."

Sherlock pulled John into a tight hug and they stood there for a few seconds before John pushed him away, laughing.

"Get going, you tit, you're holding up the line!"

Sherlock left the room feeling awful. He couldn't do all this to John; he'd have to restrain himself in the future. He was supposed to be detaching himself, but all he felt was the need to make the bond between them stronger. It was pulling his heart in different directions. He'd have to fix all of this, for John.

As he passed the queue, a woman in her early 40s looked him up and down. He recognized her from somewhere and as she winked at him, he realized where.

He recognized her from a crime scene. That day when John and him had dealt with Lestrade and their fake proposal.

She had been lying face down in her bedroom, supposedly suicidal.

She was supposed to be dead.

Jim had struck again.

…

"But _how?_" Sherlock was saying to John.

"How what?"

"How is he getting it around so fast without anyone noticing? How is no one noticing?" Sherlock thought out loud, putting his fingers on his temples.

"He has us under tight surveillance, I can't imagine we're the only ones." John said, going through the pile of take out menus "Chinese?"

"No, we had that on Monday. And I thought about threats, but the scale of all that… It just doesn't seem like the only way. And one part of the concoction has to be imported all the way from Beijing. There is no other way to get it done. The only reason I got any was –"

"Wait, you know what it is?" John asked, wide-eyed.

Sherlock went into auto-pilot. "No."

"But you just said – "

"No, I didn't"

"Sherlock, I just heard you – "

"No, you didn't"

"Sherlock!" John was fearful. He didn't know what it was, or why Sherlock was keeping it from him.

"I can't say, John. Please." Sherlock looked at the floor.

John took in a deep breath. "Fine." He said "Pizza?"

"We had Italian last week" Sherlock said

"Indian"

"Too rich for tonight"

"Thai"

"Alright"

"Good. I'll call"

John went to pick up his cell phone from the table and watched as Sherlock curled up in a ball on the couch, his blue robe flowing over the side, his lack hair a crumpled mess on his head.

He wanted to comfort him, but gave him his distance. After the night before, John had to hold himself back. He needed to restrain himself. He wanted Sherlock, but if he made another move and was rejected, he didn't think he could take it. It would ruin him. He had to detach himself, for Sherlock.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN:**

**Short chapter, more of a set up for the big finale!**

**Love hearing from you all :)**

* * *

It was midnight. John was sitting up in bed. He listened to the clock tick on his bedside table. His nerves were torn and all he wanted to do was sleep. His eyelids drooped, but he didn't sleep. His body ached for at least an hours rest, but none came. For once, he had closed his eyes, willing to drift into the unconsciousness, listening as that stupid clock ticked into silence and dreamland, but all he could do was sit, staring at the wall across from him and hoping that everything in his life would unscramble itself.

It had been two weeks since Sherlock had sat down for dinner with him that night. When the two were happy, or as close to that as they could be. It was also the last time Sherlock had spoken to him about the case. Or spoken to him at all. It was like their friendship had never existed. Sherlock would start avoid him throughout the day, making plans. Sherlock never had plans. It had started when Sherlock had started helping Lestrade with a few cases.

"No, John. Don't need you there. Sorry. Fast case. Boring. Won't be long"

Those eventually turned to mumbled excuses, grunts and nothing at all.

John thought about confronting him, but every time he tried, Sherlock's eyes would glaze over and he would change the subject, making excuses. He had never seen the great consulting detective panic like he did whenever John pried. Sherlock usually thought himself to erode a "calm, cool and collected" air at the most stressing of times, but John knew him too well and hoped that it wasn't as bad as he thought it was. That it wasn't slowly killing him.

John opened his laptop. The light illuminated his room and blinded him with its bright artificial light. He waited a minute for his eyes to adjust, focusing and adapting to the sudden change. Eyes were so fragile, John thought. The slightest bit of change and they have such a hard time adjusting. The biggest change and they just stop working. They need protection from dust and dirt, but they can also be the deadliest weapons. Jim's eyes were weapons. His dark beady eyes, like daggers, showing people their place. They were so hollow and sunken and dark.

Sherlock had beautiful eyes. His eyes shone in the sun and blazed in the darkness. They lit up when he was confronted with a problem and crinkled on the rare occasions when he smiled. Sherlock's eyes were the only place that he showed emotion. John closed his own eyes and rested his head back on the headboard of his bed.

He needed to get away. He needed a safety net. This whole thing was spiraling so much out of control that he didn't even know where it was going anymore, or if it was even in his control a little bit. He was just caught in the middle, hopelessly being blown wherever Sherlock or Jim willed him.

He opened his computer, biting his lip to keep from screaming or crying, he didn't know. He checked his blog. Nothing. He opened his email.

**1 Unread Message – Jim Moriarty (E-VITE)**

Evite? Alarms went off in his head as he opened the message.

**From: Jim Moriarty  
To: John Watson  
Subject: E-VITE**

_You have been invited!  
__When: Monday, 3pm  
__Where: 221b Baker. St  
__What to Bring: Bring a dish of your choice. It is a potluck dinner.  
__What: The Engagement Party  
__Who: John Watson & Sherlock Holmes_

John panicked. He got up, placing his computer on his nightstand, his mind racing. Engagement party? Already? He and Sherlock weren't even on speaking terms, really and they were supposed to keep up the "Happy Couple" act. Jim knew by now that they hadn't ever been a couple. Sherlock's plan had failed. It was done. They didn't have to try anymore. Jim obviously wanted to. John felt so powerless, feeble, weak. He had no choice. It was all going to change.

**From: John Watson  
****To: Jim Moriarty  
Subject: Meeting**

_Jim,_

_Meet me at the Funeral home.  
__11pm, tomorrow night.  
__Don't be late._

_Sincerely,  
__John Watson_

He read it over twice before sending it, hoping that he could fix this problem without Sherlock's help. He lay down in his bed and felt the soft crevice where Sherlock usually slept. It felt cold and empty. John realized how alone he really felt.

…

Sherlock had been avoiding John. He couldn't even think about him without a hole opening up in his heart. It made him want to throw things, shoot the wall, cry. He was so fed up with it all. He wanted to take John in his arms, hold him close and never let him go. It was midnight and he fought the urge to creep up the stairs to join him in his bed.

He blew a string of black hair out of his eyes and sauntered into the living room, curling himself into a little ball on the couch holding his sides with his arms, tensing every muscle in his body. He kicked his legs and bit his lip to keep himself together; he felt the scream building in his throat. His body felt as if every particle was being pulled apart and sown back together, his chest was burning as if someone had punched a hole in it. For once, Sherlock's emotions were flowing through the dark barricade that he kept them away with, flowing into his mind and consuming every thought he had. His ability to move, to speak, to think was blurred by his aching need for the one. The one named John Hamish Watson. The one sitting in his bed up the stairs, secretly hoping that the man sitting below him would just walk through the door, closing the distance and ending the pain.

But he didn't.

And the pain didn't stop.

**From: Jim Moriarty  
To: John Watson  
Subject: Re: Meeting**

_Dearest John,_

_I'll be there _

_Love,  
__Jim ;)_


	19. Chapter 19

**AN:**

**Thank you to everyone who followed through to the end! 3 **

* * *

"Package came for you today. Very big. I signed for it. They said that it would spoil if you didn't open it."

Mrs. Hudson hobbled around cleaning as she spoke. Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot on the couch. John had gone to work and left some lasagna for him to eat. He had seemed absent-minded and Sherlock deduced that he hadn't gotten any sleep the night before. He had used his computer. Talking to Jim perhaps? Sherlock wrapped his robe tighter around himself and closed his eyes as Mrs. Hudson puttered around.

"Now, I'm off to the shops. Please remember to turn on the heat Sherlock. I don't want the new renter to get chilly down there in the basement. Awfully nice girl. You should go say hello."

Sherlock put his hands together and aligned them with the tip of his nose and the center of his perfect lips. He listened to Mrs. Hudson's absent-minded muttering. She seemed anxious as well. The entirety of 221b seemed on edge, Sherlock thought. He started to deduce her from sound alone. She was cleaning which meant something in her personal life was bothering her, and she was in Sherlock's apartment, which meant that she wanted to discuss something with him. Something in _his_ personal life was bothering her. Interesting. Well, he didn't want to be bothered with his personal life. He had finally pushed all of his feelings back behind his big barricade, he didn't want them rushing back like the night before. He shuddered and opened his eyes. She was wearing purple, which meant that she had been watching reality television again. The cut and amount of ruffles in the front said that it was that stupid talent show that played on Wednesday nights. The length of the sleeves suggested that it was laundry day. She was stopping at the dry cleaners before she went shopping. He sighed.

"Boring" He said, turning his head up to face the ceiling.

Mrs. Hudson snapped. She ran over to the lump on the couch with incredible speed for the little woman she was. She grabbed a couch cushion and hit him with it.

"Look. At. What. You. Are. Doing. Sherlock. Holmes." She said, emphasizing each word with another thwack of the pillow in which she brought down on Sherlock's hollow body.

"Mrs. Hudson! Stop!" Sherlock scrambled up onto his feet, ripping the weapon out of his landlord's hands. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"John, Sherlock. I know what's been going on up here. You think I don't see things. You think that I don't see past my own nose, you ignorant sod. I may not know all that has been going on with you and that case of yours, but I'm not a blind old bat, yet. I can see what you've been doing and I know because I was in love once too. John is strong; you forget that he has seen many awful things. He'll be alright. As for you, I see the way he looks at you. There is no way that he will ever let you go. Soul mates aren't disposable, Sherlock, you've only got one. You'd be terribly stupid if you didn't grab him and keep him close."

Sherlock looked at the woman standing in front of him. Her small, frail frame jumping out from her purple dress and her sullen eyes full of hope. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, deep, deep in thought. Her words spoke with a ray of truth. He picked up his phone.

**To: John Watson**

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

_Meet me at home for seven o'clock tonight._

_We need to talk._

_SH_

He placed his phone back on the table and grabbed Mrs. Hudson's hand. She smiled, looking up at him.

"You think it's for the best, but you forget that he is his own person." She said, patting his cheek and leaving with a gust of perfume and warm air.

…

John was supposed to be at work. He knew it. Instead he was getting fitted for a suit. It had been around one in the morning when he realized that his soiled woolen jumper from the laundry wouldn't do for his meeting that night. His phone buzzed in his pocket and as he read the text, his heart flipped in his chest. Seven that night. He didn't want to lose this; he didn't want to get his heart stepped on. He also couldn't fight the feeling that was growing in his chest. It was time. He knew it, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. Not this time.

The tailor checked the fit around his waist and John swatted him away. He couldn't let him see the gun that he had hid in the back pocket. He would have to keep the buttons undone of the jacket if he wanted to reach the gun in time. He sighed and went to the cash.

He contemplated his options. If he pushed back the time with Sherlock, he would suspect that things were up. That couldn't happen. If he changed times with Jim, the results could be disastrous. He couldn't show him any weakness. He paid for the suit, cringing at the high expense he was making and walked out feeling satisfied. He picked up his phone.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**From: John Watson**

_I'll be there. _

_JW_

…

Sebastian knew. Jim had been skirting around the apartment for his rendezvous that evening. He could tell by the flustered look on Jim's face that he liked John. Maybe even _loved_ John. He picked up his gun and fastened it under his jacket. He had a few pit stops that he had to make before that evening. Jim had requested to see John alone, but Sebastian knew better. He knew to not let the psychopath deal with this. His irrationality and sporadic behavior always put him in odd situations and Sebastian knew that he had to back him up, no matter what. He would be their chaperone.

…

Jim stood, looking at himself in the mirror, a towel wrapped around his waist. He drew a smiley face on the fogged up mirror before taking out his shaving kit. He knew that Sebastian would follow him. He had everyone just where he wanted them to be. He knew of Sherlock's engagements with John, he knew of John's plans for the evening. He knew everything. It was one of the great perks of having the entire British government under his thumb. He could tap into most phone calls, text messages, private surveillance systems. It was so easy to blackmail Mycroft Holmes. He wasn't a particularly strong man. He had his weaknesses. Jim laughed and wiped down the mirror with a dry cloth before smothering his face with shaving cream and beginning to shave.

He felt as the razor covered every inch if his chin; he felt it hitch over a bump or odd crevice. He rinsed it with water and felt it drip down his nose and into his eyes, before drying it with a washcloth. Beautiful, he thought, applying aftershave and taking a deep breath through his nose. Lovely.

He looked at the time. 5:45pm. He had time still. He would have to choose what to wear. Something that screamed "Sexy," he thought as he walked out into his bedroom and pulled on some underwear. Standing in his boxers, he ran his fingers through his hair. There was a soft knock on the bedroom door.

"May I come in?"

"At your own risk" Jim chuckled, pulling on the bottoms to his Westwood suit and doing up the buckle as Sebastian entered.

"Good Luck. I guess," He said, hoping for some sort of acknowledgement. Some sort of a confession. Nothing came.

Jim let out a soft growl in the back of his throat. "I won't be needing it."

Sebastian crossed the room and put both of his hands on Jim's bare back, feeling the warmth of his soft skin. Making sure that Jim was real, that the man he loved was really standing in front of him. He doubted, for the tenth time that day, if he was really worth all of the trouble. "My apologies. I'll let you be."

Jim turned to Sebastian and pounced, crossing the space between their lips and roughly filling his mouth with his tongue. Sebastian was caught by surprise and pulled away, panting.

Both men stood, speechless. Jim had put the final piece of the puzzle into place. The knowledge that the man who knew all of his secrets would be kept in position. Sebastian kissed him again, and Jim took it a step further, biting the man's bottom lip and tugging slightly. Sebastian groaned as Jim pulled away, running his hand through Seb's hair. "I've got to get ready." He said.

"You're such a tease"

"You wouldn't have me any other way, darling" Jim said, chuckling to himself. Sebastian was so easy.

…

John checked is watch. 6:30. He was in a cab, in his suit, trying to figure out wheat the hell he was doing. He sat for the ride, his thoughts wandering. He had to get it done. He had to go and meet Sherlock. He couldn't be at two places at once and he knew it. He would have to run, and hope and pray to god that Jim wouldn't kill him. That he could have some good news to bring to Sherlock.

…

Sherlock picked up the red rose and twirled it around in his fingers. It had been the freshest red rose that the flower shop had. The only rose that wasn't disease-ridden and ugly. The only one without any spots. It had only one pointy thorn on the lower half of its stem. He had pricked his finger on it and watched as the little dot of blood balled up there. He left it and watched it a little while before sticking his finger in his mouth and licking it clean. He felt like a child.

His stomach clenched in anticipation. His heart was pounding. He remembered being married to his work. He remembered meeting John. Deducing him. Boring old John Hamish Watson. Army Doctor, home from Afghanistan, psychosomatic limp, alcoholic sister and her wife Clara. He had come so far. They both had. 6:45pm. His heart jumped. He had prepared a little bit early. He had a whole lovely spaghetti dinner prepared. Just like Lady and the Tramp. He wanted it to be perfect. Perfect, just like his John. He had looked over the apartment twice, set up little twinkling lights. Christmas lights.

He started to drift off, back into the case. Nothing had really shown up. Jim had his organization so tightly wound. Nothing would be able to get to him. He had tried to find the loophole. There was always the one slip up. Jim Moriarty may be the exception. Sherlock had met his match. He sighed and closed his eyes. The evening was a celebration. He had one more piece of the puzzle. It wasn't an important piece. He had all he needed. It was just a whisper at the back of his big, brilliant mind.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. He couldn't quite remember, but he was sure there was something else nagging him. Something about that night that made it extra special.

…

7:00pm. John walked down the hall towards the party room that they had used that night at the big party. It seemed like so long ago. When all of the nonsense had happened. He pushed open the door to find Jim, standing and admiring the view. He could see all of London.

"Beautiful evening, isn't it? It's so nice that you can see the stars so early in the winter."

"Yes. You're right." John said. He had to execute his plan. Use Jim's Achilles heel.

Jim smirked and walked over to John, putting a hand on his face. "So John, why call me here on such a busy evening. I'm sure you have better places to be."

John furrowed his eyebrows. He had no clue what Jim was referring to. He didn't let it show. "Not tonight. Tonight it's just you and me. Jim Moriarty."

A smile passed over Jim's face as he moved a hand into John's hair, getting closer to him and putting his nose to John's. "Really? Just you and me?" He said.

"Really." John whispered, lightly planting a kiss on the criminal's lips.

Jim pulled him closer, pushing his lips onto John's, gripping his hair and devouring his mouth with his own. He took in the moment. He wanted it so badly. John's hips moved underneath him and Jim took it as an invitation to move in closer, feeling John's suit beneath him.

Suddenly, John's hand snapped forward, turning Jim around and clicking a gun into place at his temple. "I want to know something. I need to know it. You have destroyed me and I plan to repay you. Give me the information and in return, I won't kill you."

Jim chuckled before John's hand clenched his throat, squeezing it out of him. John was filled with anger at the man who had taken his life and turned it into lies. He needed the information and he needed it that second. The clock on the wall displayed the time 7:10. Late.

"Now." John said. "Where are you keeping the super-drug?" His voice stayed calm and never wavered. His heart was racing. He had guessed correctly. He wasn't afraid of Jim. He was never afraid of Jim. Jim would never kill him. He never got his hands dirty.

"Ah, my antidote. I am not allowed to say. Sorry, Johnny-boy. Too bad that you won't be able to meet Sherlock for Christmas dinner."

Christmas. It was Christmas Eve. December 24th. John's eyes widened. He forgot Christmas.

Sebastian walked out from in the shadows. He cocked his gun and pointed it straight at John's head. "Sherlock will be all alone tonight."

Jim stood up wiping off his suit. "That would be a terrible ending to the story, Sebastian. John, dead. Sherlock, driven insane by the one part of the problem he hasn't found yet. Why don't we tell John our plan, hm? He can decide whether he wants to stay with us. He would be a lovely asset. Besides, it's Christmas"

John was taken aback. A choice? That was unlike Jim in every way possible. Sebastian seemed surprised as well, as he reluctantly put down the gun. Jim crossed back over to John and took one of his hands in both of his own. John took in the gesture and realized what Jim was implying.

"All along?" He asked. Jim's expression stayed thoughtful. He didn't say anything.

"Right" John answered himself. "What is the plan then? How have you been smuggling it into the country?"

"Tennis Balls." Sebastian said, taking apart his gun. "They were an easy enough cover. No one expected it. You bounce it against a wall and it still works. We smuggled it into prisons and people would be brought out as if they had died. Three days later, they were walking the streets again."

"Right." John repeated, scratching his head. He turned to Jim, who looked at him, innocently.

"Goodbye John. I guess I won't be seeing you anytime soon." Jim said. John wondered what the hell was going on.

Jim's heart was heavy but he felt the familiar hollowness start to engulf his feelings once again. No more feelings, no more problems. He took one last look at John before shrugging, a familiar smirk on his face. All the gears were turning, everything in place. Finished. Sebastian followed behind him like a lonely puppy, and soon John was standing in the room alone with his thoughts. He looked up at the clock. 7:30pm. There was a reason that Jim had told him. He just didn't know why.

…

As he approached 221b, Sherlock was standing, leaning against the door. His scarf and long coat were blowing in the wind, which had picked up considerably since he had left. It was going to rain, not snow on Christmas Eve. He could tell. His suit was not going to be enough. He checked his watch. 8:45. Damn. He was very late.

"Sherlock, I am so sorry."

"I understand John."

"No, you listen. I have the _how_. I have it."

"Alright, John" Sherlock was distant.

"You don't understand, Sherlock, I was just with Jim and I got the _how_. He was smuggling it through with tennis balls and He was sneaking them into prisons and other things." John excitement was building. Sherlock stayed monotonous.

"John. You were late."

"I know, and I'm so sorry, but I was with Jim. I was doing it for you. Now we can go inside and celebrate. I found the missing piece."

Sherlock didn't move. He looked straight ahead. John was desperate for something, anything. It slowly dawned on him that Jim might not have given him the correct information. He realized what it looked like.

"Sherlock. I swear I just wanted information from him."

"Did you really? You smell of his aftershave. Your face is flushed, your pupils dilated; you're sweating for god sakes. Where did you do it? On the floor of that stupid funeral home or in the cab on the way back?"

"We didn't - "

"You're are still full of adrenaline, you have that stupid lopsided, giddy grin of yours which I have seen twice. Once when you spent the night at Sarah's and the other after your date with that stupid teacher. Your lips are plump and red, John and I don't think that is the ridiculous winter air."

"Sherlock, listen to yourself."

"Should I continue? Your hair is ruffled unnaturally, scratch marks down the side of your neck. Your suit buttons are done up but in a rush as if you flung them off before. Maybe not even off completely. Was there something you needed to reach in your back pocket? Protection perhaps? You're late by an hour and forty-five minutes, you were meeting me. I made my intentions fairly clear and now you are waltzing in here with news from Jim that is obviously false."

"Obviously false?"

"Of course. You can't fit both the poison and the antidote into a small tennis ball, you need at least sixteen ounces of both for either to work. While you've been _occupied_, I have already figured out the smuggling procedures and shut them down, thanks to Mycroft's help. It was fairly simple. Most people were dying during travel. Plains, automobiles, buses, trains. The other half was dying in prisons. That could only mean that it _had _to be in the food."

"In the… food. Right." John wasn't listening. He had tried so hard, thinking he had finally won. Had the upper hand for good. Won. He should have known that if Jim wanted him to win, he would have won already. His heart sunk. He should have realized it sooner. It was all a part of Jim's stupid plan. From the very beginning. Set them up, make them fall in love. Notorious Jim, clever Jim, matchmaker Jim.

"Crappy, packaged food trays and a few willing participants. TaDa. People are dying and undying left and right. And the antidote, yes of course. Sherlock? How on Earth could you be so clever as to find out what it was? Well, it was quite simple. The line, scene and act numbers of the famous passages of Romeo and Juliet – What light through yonder window breaks, Romeo, Romeo where for art thou, Romeo, etcetera – Were the formula code. Very simple really. It only took a few hours" Sherlock's mimic of John drew him out of his devastation. He had done all of this, risked his life, for Sherlock's sake. All he was getting was petty anger. He snapped.

"Good for you Sherlock. Your brilliant mind does it again! Congratulations. You know what? I work my ass off for you, you stupid git, and I don't get as much as a thank you. In fact, I get the opposite! I have to deal with this nonsense! I don't get it! I don't get you!"

"No one does."

"Don't give me that."

"I'm not"

"Stop this." John turned and walked away, down the street. "Just stop it now."

Sherlock followed him. "I'm not the one sleeping around."

John stopped in his tracks, whipping around to face Sherlock. "For once in your life Sherlock could you actually take a step back and think that maybe your stupid deductions are wrong."

As John had predicted, the rain started to fall. First one drop, then the next until the downpour was so heavy it was like standing in a shower. Neither man showed any signs of moving.

Sherlock looked at John. He watched as the rain drained away all the evidence. Raw, pink lips turning to chattering pale ones. The smell of aftershave turning to an aroma of drenched fabric. After a while, all that was left was John. Sherlock's deductions melted and he saw what truly was there.

Sherlock stepped forward, crossing the distance between them, grabbing John by the collar and pressing their lips together. He pulled at John's hair, willing him further and deeper into the kiss. His hands then moved to the sides of John's face, holding him there, commanding him. He wrapped himself around the shorter man, as if he wanted to consume him. John was his, and his only. He felt the familiar roughness of John's unshaven cheek and the warmth of his true love's body against his own.

At last, John softly pulled away, and Sherlock moaned. John grinned, keeping Sherlock close.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock"

* * *

**I'll might be posting again to let you know when I'll be starting a new story, maybe not. Check in and see! :)**


	20. Epilogue

**Hello again! It has been awhile. A few things:**

**- This story felt incomplete to me and on request by my friend Rebecca, I have written an Epilogue.**

**-Reichenbach feels all over!**

**- Thank you for sticking around until the end :)**

* * *

It was midnight. Not too late as far as John was concerned. He never really liked sleep. He never really liked anything, he deliberated.

He watched a lonely rain drop as it slithered from the top of the window frame, leaving a trail of tiny droplets in its path. He cringed and watched another raindrop follow its former one's path. They were like the bigger one's children. Almost like ducklings, in the sense that they stayed in formation even when the original water drop was long gone. He liked the rain, he remembered, vaguely. The big droplet was clinging to the edge of the ledge. It was going to fall soon.

John went numb and clamped his arms to the sides of his body. No. This was not going to happen. Not now. Not ever again.

He felt the convulsion start in his lower back, moving up his spine, making him shake violently. He started to scream.

Mrs. Hudson sprinted up the stairs with incredible speed for the woman she was. She clamped her hands on both sides of John's face.

"John! You're going to be all right. Look at me." She turned his head so that they made eye contact.

He stopped, gasping for breath, a tears streaming down his face. "It hurts so much." he whispered. It wasn't the first time he had visited 221b since the fall. He hadn't thought it would have been such an issue. Psychosomatic tendencies were usually triggered by trauma, he knew that. He held his cane firmly in his hand, getting to his feet. "It's been three years, Mrs. Hudson. It still hurts."

"I understand darling." was all she said, before turning on her heel and walking out the door. A part of John wondered if she was alright. If she was hurting too.

John sat down in his armchair, looking at the dusty old apartememnt, wondering why Mrs. Hudson hadn't rented it out. John hadn't touched any of the junk yet. He had thought Mrs. Hudson was going to give it away. He sighed and put a hand to his head. Three years.

He had talked to his therapist, but she was useless. John just wished he could see him again. The image of them intertwined in bed in the morning, his hot breath on the back of John's neck. The paleness of his skin in the moonlight. The feel of his lips against John's own. His taste, his smell. He missed him so much. The pain didn't leave because John didn't want it to. Because somehow, somewhere, he knew the man he loved would be waiting.

He curled up into a ball and slowly drifted to sleep, hoping that the next day would be better, yet, knowing it couldn't be.

…

John awoke to the smell of baking. He opened his eyes to see Mrs. Hudson kneading dough on the counter.

"Sorry, I must have dozed off." he noticed the blanket that had been thrown over his shoulders.

"That's alright dear, you needed it." She cooed

"Thank you." he said, standing and picking his cane, up off the floor. He looked at his phone. "I'm headed off to work, I might come back later on today, unless it's an issue."

Mrs. Hudson looked up from her baking, realizing the big step John was taking. She was unsure whether it was for better or worse. She looked him up and down. Same shabby coat, ruffled hair and crinkled eyes. But he was hollow. Sad and distant. She nodded "Of course,"

…

The rest of the day passed in robotic tedium. He went through patient after patient, repeating the same procedure as he did everyday. The mundane activity helped numb the pain. Nearing the end, there was a soft knock at the door and Sarah poked her head in. "John, hi, you okay?"

He looked at her, furrowing his eyebrows. He felt like he was underwater. In a whole different world than she was. He couldn't move on. "I'm fine."

"That's good," she smiled, "there is one more patient today, I'll send her in."

John watched as the door shut behind her. He put his head in his hands, rubbing his face. He needed a coffee and an aspirin. He opened the door and in walked a familiar woman. She was small and mouse-like. Her hair a messy bun on top of her head.

"Molly?"

"Hello, John. I was due for a checkup, um, and I figured, why not pay you a visit?" She said, smiling.

He didn't know why, but it felt really good having her there. They made small talk as he asked her to open wide and say "Aaaah." He went through normal procedure and when they were finished, he felt like he had gotten a second wind. Enough to make it through his day.

"It was nice to see you again," he said, packing up his things.

She smiled back, "You as well" she said before looking down at her fingers guiltily and leaving. She wished so badly that John would be okay.

…

John returned back to 221b and sat back down in his chair, looking out the window and sighing. He looked around the room at all the things that were left behind.

Sitting on the desk were thousands of papers, the ciphers from the blind banker, Mrs. Adler's website print outs, sheets of words and numbers and notes from different cases.

Bluebell, the glow-in-the dark rabbit, had a page. There was a sketch with many different calculations and experiments written all over. There were notes from the many different experiments that had been conducted. Fingers in the microwave, the highest temperature for 40 minutes showed that the specimen charred and bubbled. Thumbs in the freezer, even when they were not attached, thumbs showed signs of frostbite and hypothermic tendencies. The severed head, was later used to see if hair growth was possible after decapitation, apparently it was, and a long calculation followed. There were calculations on everything from which was the best detergent to which restaurant was the best in the city. John noticed that the bookshelf was covered in papers as well, not only that, but so was most of the apartment, except for the kitchen, of course, since Mrs. Hudson had used it and cleaned it.

John walked around the entire flat, collecting the papers and reading the notes in the long fluent handwriting that they were written in. It was a small glimpse into the head of an extraordinary man.

John read about plant growth and tobacco farming and the types of fruit juices that they sold at the grocery store down the street. He read about the decomposition of body under certain conditions: moist, dry, hot, cold, below freezing, upside down, without extremities, with extremities. He read about milk decomposition under the same conditions. He read about Mycroft's moods and the deductions that had been made from them. He read about Lestrade and his dislike for grapefruit. He read about Donovan and Anderson and Molly.

He wandered the room, collecting papers and old notebooks. He read them and then placed them in a pile, categorizing them by length and subject.

He looked in the boxes and bins that were stacked around the place. Boxes of rotting tomatoes and weird experiments and mould that used to be objects. He threw out the things that needed to be. He kept the things that he held dear.

He stayed for our hours. Dusting and mopping and sorting and reading until there was only one box left. The place had never looked better. He walked over to the mantle, running his fingers along it until he came across an object. He picked it up to study it.

The skull. Inside, there was a pack of old cigarettes. He yearned for the time again, making him feel upset and confused. He placed it back in its place, leaving it for another time, before he got too overwhelmed. He knew that it was where it belonged.

He crossed over to the last box, opening it to reveal something that made his heart stop.

The violin sat neatly in its case. Untouched, unmoved for three years. Still in mint condition. The wooden body had been hand carved many, many years ago. Varnished and scraped and painted. It felt smooth and still under John's fingertips. The strings were tight and perfectly align, restless and waiting to plucked and strummed. The bow sat as well, curved in a perfect way. The velvet insides of the case were red and John couldn't help but run his hand along them. He picked up the violin, putting it to his cheek. The one treasured possession.

John noticed something on the inside of the case. A small black notebook. There were many like it scattered around the house, but this one seemed different. It seemed almost out of place in the elegance of the musical instrument. He opened it and furrowed his eyebrows.

"John: Doesn't like his sister's drinking. Psychosomatic limp. Has a therapist. Army doctor in Afghanistan. Easily impressed. Trust issues, but not with me." He read aloud, flipping the page to reveal a diagram "Doesn't like when I forget the milk. Doesn't like Indian food, too rich a taste. Doesn't like cumin. Doesn't like experiments in the fridge. Doesn't like frozen pizza. Doesn't like Anderson. Thinks Molly's a doll. Doesn't like when I embarrass him. Doesn't like when I make deductions about other people, to their faces. Note: Don't be rude." John quickly flipped through the pages "Thinks I'm narcissistic, thinks I don't have feelings, thinks I have old feuds with my brother. John has a birthmark on his right knee, John likes ice cream. dislikes porridge. Favourite jumper is beige. Likes Christmas. Likes the rain. John likes women." John paused looking down at the block letters written on the page "John doesn't love me back." he said. He frowned. If he had just realized sooner how wrong he had been, then maybe they could have spent more time together.

"Turn the page," a deep voice said from behind him. John's eyes widened and his heart started racing.

He slowly stood and turned around.

And there he was, standing in the doorway, his coat done up, his scarf bundled around his neck. His expression unreadable.

"Sherlock" John whispered, walking up to him and touching his face. "You're alive."

Sherlock looked at him, his intense blue eyes, taking him in, calculating his every detail.

Suddenly John was was overwhelmed with emotions. He was joyous, sad, confused.

He was furious. Three years, making him wait three years. The convulsions, the seizures, the limp, all because of him. The anger built up inside him. "You bastard" he said, punching him.

Sherlock recoiled, surprised.

"You were alive and you didn't even think for one, bloody second, to drop by, have lunch maybe, or go for tea. No! You let me suffer for three entire years, only to come back and expect my forgiveness!" he beat down on Sherlock's chest, blow after blow, emphasizing his statement, until he was exhausted. He bursted into tears, melting into Sherlock's warm embrace "I missed you" he whispered

"I'm here now, John." He said, plating a soft kiss on John's forehead and wiping away a tear.

"I love you, you idiot." John said,

Sherlock leaned down. "I love you too"

The two shared a passionate kiss, and John was reminded of Christmas three years ago. The rain dripping down his cheeks and into his hair and the beautiful man standing opposite him. It was warm and happy and perfect.

He was brought back to reality when Sherlock pulled away, leaving him feeling empty. He rushed back into his embrace.

"Don't you ever leave me again," He warned.

"I promise," Sherlock replied, his expression filled with appologies.

John looked into his powerful blue eyes and realized that Sherlock had been in pain as well. But not anymore.

Sherlock nuzzled his head into John's neck, holding him close and for the first time in three years, John smiled.


End file.
